It Never Rains
by Lunar1
Summary: Sam Vimes's troubles are only just beginning when a long lost relative arrives. Dealing with his own murky past as well as trying to stop the most dangerous theft the Disc has ever known are only the start of his problems! *Guest Starring Rincewind*
1. But It Pours

Hello Chaps and Chapettes. It's been rather a while since I've posted to this section, and I warn now that updates may be a little infrequent to this fic as I am working on two others at the moment concurrently and sitting some fairly major exams... but... here is chapter one, apologies if it doesn't make a fantastic amount of narrative sense. I promise all will be explained... when I get round to writing chapter 2... The summary will eventually make sense too, I swear. Just give me time! Oh, and I know there is some debate about whether there are steps down to the cells of the Watch House before someone flags that up... and I do apologise if Vimes sounds a little OOC at the end of this chapter. But after re-reading Feet of Clay I think that the quiet brooding side to the Commander does emerge when his past and his family are involved in things, rather than the angry not-so-young man. Enough ramble. Reviews greatly appreciated! 

- Lunar

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Night unfolded over Ankh-Morpork, shades of dark blue and purple gradually infiltrating the orange-red of sunset. A gentle breeze from the Sto Plains bought with it cool relief from the heat of an unusually warm day. In the gardens and window boxes plants had wilted under a fierce sun; only those on the crust of the river Ankh remained standing, their roots extending below the famously turgid surface to the excellent liquid fertiliser beneath.

The breeze flapped the curtains in the open window of Sam Vimes's bedroom, bringing with it the sweet smell of pollen from the gardens below, making his nose twitch. He mumbled something inaudible in his sleep as he shifted position uncomfortably.

Vimes sneezed violently and woke up suddenly, blinking in the dim light of his bedroom. The covers had been thrown off his legs, it being far too hot to sleep under them. He groped for his watch on the bedside table. Nearly eleven o'clock. At his side Lady Sybil turned over in her sleep to face him. Vimes lay awake, debating whether or not to close the windows. Seemingly the pollen from various night-flowers was irritating his nose, but in closing the window the temperature could grow quite oppressive.

Eventually he turned over himself, deciding the breeze on his bare legs was worth more, and he promptly fell asleep.

Elsewhere in the city Captain Carrot was on swing patrol, moving through the dusty street with a patina of honest sweat and a cheerful grin as he waved to various citizens. The heat, as always, had tamed Ankh-Morpork. No one was moving above a walk even as the heat was fading, engulfed by the gathering dark.

*

The sound of a newspaper being pushed through the letterbox awoke Vimes early the next morning, although it was the third time he had been roused since lying down to sleep, once by sneezing and once by a crying baby. He lay in bed for some time, listening to birdsong through the still open window. Already in the air was the smell of a summer's morning.

Some time later he wandered into the breakfast room, buttered toast in hand, enjoying a lazy morning where he wasn't immediately summoned to the office to deal with an escalating situation. He sat back in one of the wooden chairs, enjoying a moment of peace.

There was a sharp tap on the front door. Vimes ignored it, closing his eyes and slumping further into the chair. /Please/ he thought, /Let me have a morning off/.

He could hear Wilkins's voice talking with someone on the doorstep. It didn't sound like Carrot; the second speaker was quiet, voice low and muted. The butler materialised in the doorway of the breakfast room.

"There's man on the doorstep sir," Wilkins said, "Name of Andrew. Says he wants to speak to you."

"Andrew?" Vimes said, bewildered. He brushed some crumbs of toast off his trouser. "Um. Okay. I'll go and see what he wants..."

He hurried through the house to the ancestral hall where 'Andrew' was waiting. From behind he was a fairly short man with greying hair almost white around his ears. Vimes didn't recognise him. "Hello?"

The man turned and Vimes's jaw dropped open in shock as he stared into the face of a man he hadn't seen for thirty-five years.

"Hello Sam," said Andrew, smiling. "Long time no see."

"Andrew?!"

"Yeah. How're you keeping brother? Nice place you've got here. I asked at the Watch House about you. I knew you'd end up there. Amazing isn't it, you barely knew Dad and yet you've still managed to turn into him... It's like looking into the past, seeing your face."

"Andrew!?"

"Yeah," Andrew replied, smiling offhandedly, "Can I come in?"

"You're dead!"

Andrew's smile broadened. "Good trick wasn't it?"

Most of Vimes's brain was currently struggling to make sense of the unbelievable event occurring before his eyes but at the most basic level a wave of anger rippled through his consciousness. Unfortunately, it appeared to drain into his fist as the memories assailed him. Unstoppable as a planet it moved towards Andrew, catching him under the chin and throwing him backwards into the door lintel. 

Vimes sucked his knuckles in bewilderment. "Sam?" said a voice behind him.

Sybil descended the stairs. "Who's that?" she demanded, pointing to the man lying unconscious in their hall.

"Er," Vimes said. "This could take some explaining..."

*

Lady Sybil laid the wet cloth across Andrew's forehead as he lay on their sofa. She inspected the marks on his chin that matched the bruises on her husband's hand. "Goodness me Sam," she said, "For someone so skinny you pack quite a punch." Vimes ran a hand distractedly through his greying hair, nodding as if in answer to a question, entirely distracted. Sybil shot Vimes an enquiring look. "Are you going to tell me why I'm having to revive a man who you knocked out on our front doorstep?"

Vimes sat down in his armchair with a sigh. "You remember when we were drawing up the guest list for our wedding?"

"Yeeess," Sybil replied, confused.

"Well, you know I said that I didn't have any relatives to invite? That all of my close family were dead?"

"Yes," Sybil repeated, beginning to catch on.

"Well. This is Andrew. He's my older brother. He... died... when I was twelve."

Sybil blinked in confusion. "He's not grey enough to be a zombie," she replied.

"He was... uh, murdered I guess, by... a gang he owed money to when he was seventeen. I-" Vimes broke off. The years of his life between the ages of fourteen and seventeen were not one he paticularly wanted to revisit; much less reveal to his wife.

She met his troubled eyes, registered the stony line of his mouth. "What don't you want to tell me, Sam?" she asked.

At that precise moment Sam Vimes junior woke up and opened his mouth to let his parents know. The baby's cries echoed shrilly down the stairs from where he had been asleep in his cot. "Saved by the bell," Sybil smiled, standing up. 

Left alone to his thoughts Vimes tried to ignore the nagging recollections from thirty five years ago. Andrew Vimes stirred on the sofa. "Gods Sam. You've worked on that right hook."

"Why are you-? How are you-? What are you doing here?" Vimes stuttered.

"I- I got fed up of wandering Sam. I thought after so long it'd be safe now. I asked about you around town. In my old boozer, the Drum. Someone said you lived up in Scoone Avenue so I just knocked on doors until I found you."

"I thought you were dead! The fire-" Vimes stopped again, repressing the memories.

"Yeah, well I'm quite hard to kill Sam. Faking my own death was the only way I could see out."

"The only way out!" Vimes shouted, fury erupting again, "You /faked/ your own death to get out! You- you /started/ it? Do you know what happened once you were gone? /I/ had to pay off the debts! At fourteen I had to leave school to run errands for them! They broke my arm twice in three weeks!"

The door opened to admit Lady Sybil. "Hello," said Andrew, standing with a wince and bowing. "You are?"

"Sybil Vimes," Sybil replied, accepting Andrew's proffered hand.

"My wife," Vimes rumbled.

"Andrew Vimes," Andrew returned, "Sam's older brother."

"I heard you were dead," Sybil said innocently. 

"Yeah," Andrew replied, uncomfortably. "Congratulations are in order I believe," he added quickly trying to change the subject. "I read in the paper. A little boy it said. Named after his Dad?" 

"Andy," Vimes said suddenly, "What are you /doing/ here?" Andrew opened his mouth to speak but Vimes plunged onwards. "Is it money? If you want some, you can have it. Name your price. Just take it and don't come back."

"Sam!" Sybil admonished, shocked.

Andrew was still smiling, although there was tightening of his jaw and a darkening of his brown eyes that for a moment made the two brothers look even more alike. "Is that what you think of me?" he asked, tone light but something of a threat in his words.

"I haven't seen you for thirty five years. But at seventeen you were quite prepared to..." he stopped, glanced at his wife for a moment and then continued. "... do what you did. I've spent the last thirty odd years believing you're dead. And I'm fine with that. Just go."

Andrew frowned, opened his mouth to argue but stopped. "Alright Sam. I'm at the YMPA if you change your mind." 

Without another word he followed Vimes to the front door. "Goodbye," Vimes said when the older man was standing on the gravel. He shut the door firmly.

He turned around to see Sybil standing in the doorway. "Sam, I know you don't want to talk about-" 

"Then don't," he replied quietly, stalking away to his study. The click of the lock sounded particularly loud in the shocked silence that followed his statement. Sybil Vimes was not a woman prone to emotional outbursts. For a moment her lower lip trembled, he eyes overbright with tears. Then her sensible instincts overrode her emotional response and she went off to check her son again, before cleaning out the dragon pens.


	2. Shower

Vimes tried to work in his study for a while, reading the backlog of reports that had amassed in the time he had taken off from work after the birth of his son. Failing miserably, mostly due to the fact that Andrew's face stared at him from the end of every line, he put down the papers and unlocked the study door. He could hear Sybil humming as she mucked out the dragon pens. He slipped out of the front door quickly, striding down the street all the way to Pseudopolis Yard, lost in thought.

Captain Carrot looked up when the door of the Watch House opened to see Commander Vimes dressed in civilian clothing and looking extremely distracted standing in the doorway. He leapt to his feet, dropping his pencil on top of the report he had been writing. "Commander! Good to see you sir. I trust Lady Sybil is well?"

Other officers looked up at the sound of the Captain's voice. There was some half-hearted saluting amongst the assembled Watchmen which Vimes acknowledged with a barely perceptible nod. "I can't stay for long, Captain," Vimes said, smiling thinly, "I wouldn't want to waste my days off. I just came to collect some reports."

There was a sudden flurry of activity around the room as officers quickly busied themselves with their paperwork. Vimes's thin smile widened slightly. Carrot nodded. "Of course sir. Nothing much happening on the streets at the moment," he added as they climbed the stairs to the Commander's office. 

"Too hot," Vimes said, and Carrot nodded in accordance.

"Yes sir." Carrot paused for a moment, not quite sure how to phrase his next question without getting his head bitten off. "Uh, is everything alright sir?"

"What? Oh fine. Fine! Never better. Nothing of note worth reporting then Captain?" Vimes checked as he picked up some more reports.

"Uh, one thing sir. An unaccounted murder in the Shades. No guild note or anything. We're treating it as suspicious. Unusual method... the victim was burned alive."

"Yes, that sounds fairly suspicious to me," Vimes murmured, making a face. "Well, keep me informed Carrot. I don't like being in the dark." With a final curt nod to Carrot he took his leave. Following him down the stairs, Carrot watched him stalk down the baking streets with an expression of concern.

"Something up?" asked Angua, catching his eye from across the charge room.

Carrot shrugged. "Hard to tell. He looks like he's just had some bad news."

Angua nodded. "Could just be lack of sleep with a new baby in the house," she offered, moving to watch the retreating back of their Commander with Carrot.

"Could be," the Captain agreed. He sighed, sitting back down again, turning his attention back to his report.

Some time later the sound of the door opening again made him glance round. He leapt to his feet, smiling in genuine pleasure. "Ahmed! This is a surprise!"

71-Hour-Ahmed salaamed to Carrot. "Offendi," he said, his voice once more thick with the gravelly accent of a desert tribesman, "Mister Vimes said that should I ever visit your city again I should stop here."

"To hand over your sword," Carrot grinned. "He's not in at the moment." A look of concern flitted momentarily across the scarred face of the older policeman. "Do you need to see him?" Carrot enquired.

The silence that followed his question had the subtle distinction in depth that suggested all the people in the room had suddenly stopped writing and were now listening to the conversation. Sensing this Carrot gestured for Ahmed to go upstairs to the offices, in order to talk in more private surroundings. After the creak of their feet on the wooden floorboards had faded the scritch of pens and pencils on paper gradually filled the room once more, interspersed by perplexed watchmen trying out various spellings under their breath.

"I have grave news, Captain," said Ahmed as soon as the door closed. Carrot blinked at the sudden transition from a thick Klatchian accent to the drawl of a gentleman. "I am here in pursuit of a criminal from the Empire. I would like the assistance of the Watch."

"Of course. Er... do you want me to summon Mister Vimes for you...?"

"He's not on duty today?" Ahmed said, sounding surprised. 

"Er no," replied Carrot, "He's taken some time off at the moment."

"You need to send a warning to the wizards at Unseen University. Someone intends to steal the Octavo." Carrot looked blank. "You know, the book of the eight spells that created the Disc?" 

"I know what it is, sir," Carrot said with a slight smile, "I just can't see how anyone could steal it. It's down in the cellars, locked in a dungeon. It's very rare that even senior wizards get to see it. I don't understand how anyone could break in."

Ahmed nodded. "Me neither. But the suspect in question broke out of a supposedly completely secure prison. He managed to get to Ankh-Morpork with three /wali/ tracking him, and he's effectively disappeared."

"That's not difficult in Ankh-Morpork," replied Carrot, "It's a city built of bolt-holes."

"I know that," Ahmed smiled, "That's why I came to you."

*

Commander Vimes let himself in through the dragon pens, half-hoping to see his wife and half-hoping for her to be elsewhere so she couldn't ask him anymore questions. She wasn't there; he sighed, in relief and exasperation. Leaning against one of the pens he put down the papers, pulled out a cigar and lit it, reluctant to stay and unwilling to move. 

The recently cleaned dragons rustled in their hay behind him as he exhaled smoke. He tried to blow a smoke ring, but all he succeeded in doing was bringing tears to his eyes as he nearly choked on the fumes. He stubbed out the cigar and flicked it into one of the huge bins, picked the papers back up and moved inside. The house was unusually quiet. An elderly swamp dragon was asleep on one of the chairs. It raised its head muzzily as Vimes walked past. He scratched it behind its ears and it rumbled in pleasure.

He dropped the papers in his study, and wandered up the stairs. The muffled sounds of Sybil's voice were audible through the door of their bedroom, apparently talking to Sam. Vimes listened, head on one side, smiling faintly.

"What do you think, eh? Blue or green? Green? I think green too. It was blue yesterday so why not green today? I think your father's favourite colour is green...I wonder if he's come back yet..?" She trailed off, humming under her breath instead.

Vimes felt his face redden in guilt. He hadn't meant to snap at his wife earlier... A sudden ray of inspiration pierced through the storm clouds that had earlier threatened to break in Vimes's head.... a present. An apology. Something that Sybil would really appreciate.

He hurried off to grab his money pouch, and headed out into the streets again.

When he slipped in through the side door again he could smell the slightly singed taint in the air the meant Sybil had been cooking. He padded through into the dining room. Sybil looked up. "Hello," she said almost shyly, "Are you alright...?"

"Better, thanks," he said not quite able to meet her eyes. 

"There's some dinner in the kitchen if you want some food."

"Thanks," he replied. "Uh, I've got something for you..." he added after a moments pause. 

"Hmm?" she replied, trying to shatter some bacon with her fork.

"To say sorry," he said hastily, muddling Sybil even more.

"What?" she asked, frowning in confusion.

"Tickets," Vimes said with a small smile, producing them from his pocket and brandishing them in front of Sybil's nose. "To the opera. Next week. One for me, one for you. An apology."

Sybil laughed and then realised that Vimes was deadly serious. "Um, I'm very grateful Sam. But you hate opera... I wouldn't want to drag you to see it. There's no need to apologise, I understand you were on edge. Who wouldn't be?"

"No, I want to see it. It's my apology," Vimes argued.

"What about Sam?" Sybil said.

It was a terrible thing to admit but Vimes had actually forgotten his son when buying the tickets. "Er. We can get a babysitter," he said, thinking fast.

"Oh Sam," said Sybil looking downcast, "I don't want to spoil your present but I really wouldn't want to leave him just yet with a stranger. Not for the length of an opera."

Vimes threw up his hands in surrender. "Okay! I'll take them back. I only wanted to say sorry." He gave her an embarrassed sort of grin which she returned.

"I know. Look, don't take them back. I can donate them as a prize to the Sunshine Sanctuary raffle. It was a kind thought..." She paused, not wanting to start another not-quite-argument but also wanting to try and clarify the situation. "About earlier..." she began. A closed look flitted across Vimes's face, the slight upturn of his mouth disappearing and a frown taking its place.

"Yes?"

"I know there's something you don't want to tell me. But if you /don't/ tell me then I'm just going to keep on thinking that the best thing for you to do would be to go and speak to your brother at the YMPA."

Vimes sighed. "Sybil... there are some things in my past which I don't ever /ever/ want to remember. And my brother is one of them. I've been perfectly happy thinking th-" 

"Yes, yes you said," Sybil cut in, "But... surely nothing can be so terrible you can't bring yourself to speak to your own /brother/." 

Vimes appeared to be staring into the distance when he next spoke, very slowly as if each word was reaching the room from far away. "There are... some things. Some things which can't be forgiven... or forgotten," he finished bitterly, snapping back to the present.

/Tell me/ though Sybil, meeting his sad eyes and feeling a wave of desperate pity wash over her, unable to voice her command. Instinctively she reached out and Vimes enveloped her in a bear hug; an unusual occurrence that might in other circumstances have been quite pleasurable. Vimes muttered something into her shoulder, quite inaudible.

BAM. BAM. 

Vimes leapt apart from his wife as suddenly as if he'd been electrocuted, guilty-faced like a small boy caught with his hand in the sweet jar. "Who's that?" he asked, startled.

Sybil rolled her eyes, ever so slightly. "I don't know until you answer it. Wilkins has gone home."

Vimes's expression changed, his face taking on a hunted look. "You don't think it's An-" 

"I'll open it and find out, shall I?" said Sybil, hurrying over to the front door, Vimes trailing behind her like a useless shadow.

"Sir!"said Carrot as she pulled the door open, fist raised as he prepared to knock again, "Ever so sorry to disturb you sir..."

Sybil turned to Vimes, who was looking incredibly relieved. "What is it Captain?" he asked, his old air of command about him; the hurt writ openly on his features a few moments ago in a rare private moment had disappeared beneath his frowning exterior. Sybil felt unaccountably comforted. Somehow the frown was better than the saddened, faraway look.

"Someone to see you sir," replied Carrot, stepping aside to reveal 71-Hour-Ahmed.

Vimes took a step backwards. "Ahmed?" he asked, smiling with his mouth and somehow managing to maintain a frown, "What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you too, Sir Samuel. This must be Lady Sybil." He held out his hand, which Sybil took and was surprised to suddenly find it against the lips of the smiling Klatchian as he bent low to kiss it.

"Um," said Vimes, caught off guard by the sudden charm, "Er, yes, this is my wife. Um."

"We've met before," said Lady Sybil, trying to remember where.

"Ah yes. The Convivium." 

Vimes smiled, inwardly, wondering if he should tell Sybil that Ahmed had offered twenty camels for her.

"No... before that..." Sybil said slowly, frowning in the effort of recall, "Didn't you used to hang around with Ronnie Rust at the getting-to-know-you balls they held over at the assassin's guild?"

Ahmed's face froze. After a pause he managed to reply. "I do believe I did, yes. You have an excellent memory for faces, Lady Sybil. I do regret the fact that I never did 'get to know you,' as it were."

"Neither did Ronnie," Sybil said absently, making Vimes's eyebrows shoot up so far they were in danger of being lost in his hair. Mentally reminding himself to talk to both his wife and Ahmed later (and separately) he turned back to Carrot.

"What's the matter then Captain? Won't hand over his sword?" he added with a grin.

"Uh, no sir," Carrot replied.

"I have information for you, Commander, on a matter of some concern,"Ahmed explained.

"Oh," said Vimes. After a pause he added: "Dear. Er, do you want to come in, or discuss it back at the Yard or...?"

"I think it's best if we discuss it out of earshot of your officers," Ahmed said. 

"Okay. Come in. It's the butler's day off I'm afraid so I'll have to show you to the Mildly Yellow Drawing room myself. If you follow me, it's this way."

Sybil smiled as the contingent of Watchmen hurried away, and went to make some tea in the kitchen.

*

"His name is Omar. I think he was originally from Klatchistan. He trained as wizard at Unseen University about thirty years ago. Returning to Klatch he became involved in Alchemy and Demonology. Not a good thing in a practising wizard, or so I'm told. He... resurfaced from obscurity about ten years ago. Murdered a prostitute with his bare hands," Ahmed said.

"Strangulation?" murmured Vimes, it being the most common death for murdered 'seamstresses' in Ankh-Morpork.

"No," replied Ahmed, looking trouble. "Burnt alive. A combination of magic and alchemical knowledge."

"Nasty," said Vimes nodding.

"No evidence, but we managed to convict him because of the witness."

"A witness? That's unusual in a case like this," Carrot said. Vimes nodded in agreement.

"The woman's daughter," Ahmed said.

"She has police protection?" Vimes asked.

Ahmed looked awkward. "She has disappeared. Even before we were alerted of Omar's escape."

Vimes whistled under his breath. "A potential theft and a kidnapping. Not good." 

"Sir," said Carrot suddenly as the memories assailed him, "Sir! There was a murder in the Shades. I was telling you about it this morning. Victim-" 

"-was burnt alive. Yes. I remember. Female?"

"Hard to tell sir. Cheery's working on it with Igor as we speak," Carrot answered.

Vimes pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right. Carrot, I want you to make a report to Vetinari. I'll go and speak to Ridcully directly... I owe him a favour... Ahmed, liaise with my officers back at the Yard and see if you can identify the body. Is Angua tracking anybody?"

"No sir. She was working elsewhere in the city last night. Hasn't had a chance to have a sniff around the scene yet."

"Right. Well, get her on it. She if she can trail this Omar." Vimes stood up. "Well? What are you waiting for? Get to it," he instructed.

"Of course sir," said Carrot, standing up. 

Ahmed said nothing, simply shot Vimes a look of slight admiration before following the Captain out of the room. 

Vimes found Sybil in the kitchen. "You're going out?" she asked.

Vimes felt his face redden slightly with guilt. "Yes. I'm really sorry-" 

"No need to be. Will you be back tonight?"

"Of course," he replied, slightly hurt. "And there's plenty of need... you and Sam. I want to be home to--"

"I know that," Sybil said, "But people rely on you. Go on, go and keep the streets safe for us." She gave him a gentle prod. He kissed her swiftly, surprising her with sudden tenderness before rocketing off again in the direction of the University. Sybil stood for a moment in the silence of her kitchen. Then Sam started to cry again, and she hastened away to tend to her own duties.  
  


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++  
  


Ah, the thick plottens as my friend is wont to remark. Thanks for the reviews people! 

-- Lunar


	3. The Gathering of Clouds

Vimes sat with his head in his hand, trying to order all the information that had gradually filtered back to him from his officers in his head. Carrot had reported to Vetinari: apparently the only response had been 'Hmm' and a steepling of fingers. Cheery and Igor were still working on the body with Ahmed and Vimes hadn't /dared/ to go down into the cellar to check on their work. He wanted a few more nights of sleep filled with pleasant dreams rather than nightmares featuring charred bodies... although mostly at the moment he had to admit he didn't have much opportunity to dream, being wakened every three hours or so by his son.

What else? Ridcully had listened to his warnings and was going to allow Vimes to post a twenty-four-hour guard outside the only entrance to the room storing the Octavo. Detritus had volunteered for the first watch, and Fred Colon was already drawing up a rota. The scent of burned flesh had apparently managed to make any trails impossible for Angua to follow.

Vimes supposed he could go home. It was, after all, still officially his day off.

Night was once more falling over the city as Vimes set off for home. Stars were rising as the heat gradually drained from the world. In his garden the night-time pollen tickled Vimes's nose again. He sneezed twice in quick succession, waking several dragons who whimpered and yammered as he walked past them, ignoring them.

It wasn't all that late, but he was unsurprised to find Sybil in bed. Sleep had to be grabbed while it could be got nowadays. Vimes, used to having his sleep disrupted at any hour of the day or night was coping slightly better with the constant disturbances.

He yawned widely, rubbing tired eyes as he undressed and headed for the bathroom. Meeting his own eyes in the mirror he was surprised to see dark circles under them.

Perhaps not that much better, then, all things considered. He brushed his teeth fiercely; watching the froth form dazedly, mind elsewhere.

He slid into bed and fell asleep before his head even hit the pillow.

He awoke with a yelp, dragged from dreams filled with the crackling of merry flames and flickering orange lights. Sam was crying. Again. Sybil was blinking awake. She felt Vimes's callused palm against her cheek.

"Don't," Vimes said, voice cracked with sleep, "He's just attention seeking."

"How do you know?" his wife muttered into her pillow.

Vimes shrugged, swinging his legs out of bed and moving over to Sam's cot. He picked the baby up, squinting in the half light to look at him and check nothing was wrong. At a few days old there was no more similarity between father and son than the shock of brown hair shared by both of them; identical in colour (at least on top). Young Sam Vimes had been born with an inordinate amount of straight brown hair, now sticking up in every direction as he had been wriggling around as he cried. Vimes cradled the baby rather expertly; a few days of nervous awkwardness had now evaporated. He jiggled Sam up and down, hushing him. He stopped crying.

Vimes smiled through his exhaustion at his success. However, Sam showed no signs of going back to sleep. 

Sam Vimes senior was now moving into territory he had never before explored. Amusing a baby. As the youngest child in his family he had no experience with looking after younger siblings. Never in his career as a Watchman had he ever had more than a passing encounter with children under about the age of four.

He decided to take Sam out of the bedroom in order to let Sybil get some much needed sleep. He wandered around the house, talking quietly to Sam. With little else to tell him about he talked about his work. Crimes, criminals, rooftop chases. Sam remained quiet, blue eyes wide as if he was listening until eventually he fell asleep, to Vimes's gratification.

He laid him back into his cot and very gratefully slumped back into bed.

It only seemed like five minutes since he had closed his eyes when Willikins was knocking on the door telling him that Carrot was asking for him. Sybil and Sam were nowhere to be seen. He dressed hurriedly and dashed down the stairs.

An amazingly clean shaven and bright eyed Carrot was waiting in the hall. "Good morning sir. I trust you slept well?"

Vimes gave Carrot a bleary stare. No doubt the captain thought his statement was perfectly innocent. But you /could/ take it another way. "Just. Don't," Vimes managed, waving a finger.

"Er, all quiet last night sir in the heat. Ahmed, Cheery and Igor have made a break through on the body."

"Oh?" said Vimes, still trying to focus on the captain.

"Yes sir. A man. Still trying to trace any relatives."

"Where was he found again?" croaked Vimes.

"Silver Street sir."

"Someone's room, was it?"

"Not sure sir. Things looked pretty untouched. Couple of footprints in the dust, but scuffed up and not that good anyway. And the body. That was about it."

Vimes thought about it for a moment as he tied on his neckerchief, buckling on breastplate and screwing the helmet onto his head. "Right. I'll see you at the Yard in ten minutes," he said.

Carrot nodded. "Yessir!"

"Sybil!" Vimes called as soon as the door closed.

A faint reply from the library sent Vimes walking in that direction. Sybil looked up from a table where she was writing something. "Back to work, eh?" she said with a smile.

"Yeah," he said. 

"Good luck, I guess. Will you be wanting lunch? Dinner?"

"Wanting yes, being around to eat it, probably no. But I /swear/ I'll be back by six." /Doubt I'll be able to stay awake for much longer,/ he added mentally.

"Okay. Dinner then."

He gave her a kiss, apologising for his stubble and headed back out to work.

*

"The body was dumped," Vimes said, striding into the charge room.

"What sir?" said Carrot, standing to attention.

"The body. In Silver Street. It was dumped. Murdered elsewhere. We're looking in the wrong place. I want a discreet presence around the back of the university. Get Angua on it. Does she know who she's tracking?"

"She does sir," replied Angua, detaching herself from where she was leaning against the wall. "Good to see you back sir," she said, saluting smartly, "On it now."

Vimes nodded to himself as if checking something off a mental check list.

"Where's Ahmed?"

"Here, your grace."

"I want you to come with me. There's something you need to see."

With that Vimes strode out again. Ahmed exchanged a glance with Carrot and followed the Commander, barely able to keep pace with him.

Vimes lead him all the way to the back of the Unseen University, to the abandoned houses where so much magic was dumped no one dared live in the crumbling houses. The Watch hardly ever set foot here. Even criminals avoided it; it was far too dangerous.

But the kids came here.

From Cockbill Street and other places below the Shades.

Vimes knew his way around the streets here. A long time ago he'd sat on some of these steps and wished with his brother for a puppy. Anything with meat on would have done, they /had/ been starving. For a moment in the growing heat of the dawning day Vimes felt a sensation akin to solemn sadness at the passing of days much simpler than the ones he lived now. 

"What is it you want me to see, your grace?" asked Ahmed.

"What was Sybil talking about earlier?" Vimes asked, stalling for time.

Ahmed smiled thinly. "I was Lord Rust's... uh, servant I guess. We called them scags. I had to make his toast in the mornings, iron his clothes... I believe I asked Lady Sybil for a dance with him. She 'went out' with Rust."

"I know," Vimes replied. "It didn't last."

"I'm not surprised," Ahmed laughed, "I never could see Sybil with any of those prefects and noblemen. She was far too..."

"Yeah. I know," Vimes replied, with just a bite of warning in his voice.

Ahmed wisely changed the subject. "Why are you taking me here, your grace?"

"I know how Omar is going to try and get into the room with the Octavo," Vimes said.

"Oh?" said Ahmed.

"He's going to cut through the cellar walls here and break in that way."

There was a brief pause. "Very clever, your grace. I... hadn't thought about that," Ahmed said. "You want to post a guard here?"

"Yes. Angua should already be on the trail of our man Omar. With any luck we'll be able to catch up with the missing girl and prevent the theft." /And I can get home in time for dinner./

"And I can make my arrest and get out of your hair," Ahmed added. 

Vimes said nothing in reply as the strode through the empty streets, too tired to even think beyond the movement of his feet. Vimes knew which of the broken-down houses backed directly onto the University. He wasn't very surprised to find the door to it was hanging forlornly on one broken hinge. There was a smell in the air, a vaguely familiar stench that turned the stomach. Vimes pushed the door and it clattered to the cobble; the sound was particularly loud in the quiet street. The two policeman stepped inside.

Vimes had gained a lot of experience in messy crime scenes over his career, and this one looked vaguely familiar. Inside the house it was obvious someone had been squatting in the front rooms. There were rags that might once have been clothes strewn about, bedding in a state of disarray. Far, far worse was the silhouette visible on the wall and the smell of scorched flesh that filled the room.

It was worse than when the dragon came, Vimes told himself. Because then you could at least say: 'It was a dragon.' The idea that a human being could incinerate someone so badly that their outline remained on the wall was horrifying. Hands splayed wide indicated someone in a posture of defence, absolute terror. Vimes half wondered whether he should have checked on the body earlier. He couldn't suppress a terrible curiosity, wondering just how much of it had been /left/.

"Ah. I think it would appear that we have identified exactly where are murder victim came from."

"Wrong place at the wrong time," Vimes said sadly, "He was in Omar's way."

"Get a guard here," Ahmed said.

Vimes nodded. "Wait here until we get back," he said.

Ahmed looked vaguely affronted. "Of course, your grace."

*

Ridcully was waiting in the charge room when Vimes arrived; the Commander jumped with the shock of the unfamiliar.

"Archancellor! This is a surprise," Vimes said.

Ridcully stood up, revealing a younger man seated on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs behind him. He looked faintly familiar to Vimes. "This is the professor of Cruel and Unusual geography," said the wizard, giving the younger man a small shove.

"Rincewind," said Rincewind, holding out his hand. Vimes shook it.

"The only person to ever break into the room holding the Octavo. I thought you might want to talk to him."

"Uh. Yes. Thanks," Vimes called after the wizard's retreating back. He turned back to Rincewind. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I was on the Kite with Captain Carrot," Rincewind said.

Vimes nodded in remembrance. Rincewind was taller than Vimes, long-limbed and gangling. He was younger than Vimes too, probably about thirty five, Vimes judged; there was a tickling of grey in his brown hair and beard.

"Hang on one moment," Vimes said. "Fred!"

Fred Colon hurried over at the Commander's call. "Yes sir?"

"Send over two officers to number seventy two, the back of the University. Organise a rota. Oh and Fred? Makes sure they're experienced - I don't want anyone liable to panic, and I need them to be discreet."

Sergeant Colon nodded and hurried away. A moment later Constables Shoe and Visit-The-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets came out of the canteen, saluted Vimes and followed Ridcully out of the door.

Vimes turned his attention back to Rincewind, who looked particularly nervous; licking dry lips. "Alright sir. If you'd come up to my office, I'd just like to ask you a few questions..."

Rincewind nodded, looking throughly miserable. He didn't have a lot of good experience with Watchmen and Vimes's scowl didn't exactly predict a friendly chat over a cup of tea and some biscuits. More likely a barrage of pointed questions. Rincewind /knew/ that the seven buckets of coal (1) were going to come back to haunt him...

-------------- 

1. Science of the Discworld II - Rincewind receives seven buckets of coal to his office due to a 'clerical error' the details of which are too lengthy to explain here. Unfortunately, Ridcully found out about them.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thanks for all the reviews people! And I am mortified to realise the for years I have been reading Willikins as Wilkins!!! Thanks for letting me know- I can't believe I hadn't noticed... argh!!


	4. A Breaking Storm

Vimes prodded the food around his plate with the silver fork, completely distracted. His interview with Rincewind had been fairly unhelpful. The wizard's guarded replies and expression of glazed fear didn't make for a particularly enlightening interrogation. It had been incredibly easy for the wizard to break in; all the safeguards in place from the lectern that would rip to shreds any unwanted newcomer to the huge iron doors had been off. Strange... He felt Sybil's eyes on him and looked up, giving her a weak smile. Conversation... conversation...

"So... How do you and Ahmed...Uh, know each other?"

Sybil smiled faintly. "Oh, the getting to know you balls when I was younger were possibly the biggest social event on my school calender. Assassin's Guild students are always considered an excellent catch for anyone attending Miss Martin's Finishing School for Young Ladies. The getting to know you balls were carefully arranged by Doctor Follet and Miss Martin. It took me a minute to recognise Ahmed. He was such a handsome young man when I knew him then. All those scars..." she finished, shaking her head.

Almost instinctively Vimes's hand snaked up to the most visible scar on his own face, the one which ran across his eye. He'd never been particularly self-conscious about his scars (he'd collected rather too many for that to be a viable option) but he did regret receiving the knife wound to his face, not least because he occasionally worried that his eyesight had been affected by it. Sometimes during lulls in activity he would spend a worrying twenty minutes covering one eye and then the other, focussing on the same spot on the wall, trying to see if there was a noticeable difference between one eye and the other...

.... Not that he would ever admit that to anyone of course. 

Sybil looked up again to see him stroking the still angry red line. "Don't pick at it!" she scolded.

Vimes desisted, transferring his attention to his son. He was lying in the horrible basket made from reeds someone had had the audacity to give them as a wedding present. However, it had come in useful for ferrying Sam about the house. He was lying awake under a thin blanket; huge blue eyes apparently staring at a ceiling he probably couldn't focus on yet. He looked fairly relaxed; happy in a dazed kind of way. Vimes felt a stab of ridiculous jealousy: how fantastic it must be to simply lie, to have two willing slaves on hand the moment you opened your mouth to call them, any hour of the day or night... 

He made a face at the baby. Sam's eyes locked on his face as Vimes stuck out his tongue. He heard Sybil suppress a chuckle, which he ignored. No one believed Vimes could ever be anything other than cynical, depressive, angry... but most people never spoke to Vimes without breaking bad news, giving him updates on crime, or argued with him. In the average week Vimes dealt with at least two people trying to kill him. That kind of situation didn't sit well with a 'chirpy loveable city-sparrow' personality that other coppers from a similar background to Sam Vimes sometimes developed. 

To be honest, Vimes always had the urge to thump people with such exuberant personalities, but at home he did try at least to leave behind the 'right-bastard' side of his identity that ran the Watch where it belonged: in the Watch House.

He waggled his ears, apparently in intense concentration. Sam Vimes junior reached out with a tiny hand. Vimes allowed his son to grip his little finger, marvelling at the tiny replicas of his own digits in a most uncharacteristic manner.

It was good to be home.

*

Constable Shoe was not the sort of officer to become flustered in a tense situation. He had a cool patience that was only available to the deceased. He'd been on guard for nearly eight hours, but he resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch to see whether his shift was nearly over. It was nearly twelve o'clock. 

A stone rattled the only remaining window in the house. He ignored it. He could hear the sound of young voices outside, shouting something. Another stone bounced through a smashed window pane and skittered across the floor. Reg frowned.

"Washpot, check that out will you?"

Visit nodded and went outside. There was a crowd of kids gathered outside, dressed in traditional Ankh-Morpork street garb: whatever rags could be tied on. The oldest of them looked about eight. He gave Visit a look of cocky defiance that looked strange on his small face. The cropping of his hair to prevent lice gave the boy's head an even more shrunken look. 

Visit opened his mouth and someone hit him very hard on the back of his head, so hard in fact that they dented his helmet. He hit the cobbles as Omar slid his staff back under his coat. "Thanks," Omar said to the collection of kids. "Here you go." He threw some coins which the children scattered after.

Ahmed, stationed on the roof of the house, grinned without humour. The pigeon which he had been clutching tightly cooed softly. He threw it into the air. Omar's head snapped up as the whir of wings echoed down the street but seemed to relax when he realised what the source of the noise was.

Noiselessly as a cat Ahmed shifted position, preparing to jump as Omar headed for the door. He leapt. Omar, as if he had been expecting this all along, sidestepped neatly. Ahmed hit the cobbles and had the sense to roll away immediately. Omar's staff came whistling through the air, nearly hitting Ahmed. 

Ahmed came up, sword sliding from its scabbard. Omar grinned, changing the grip on his staff to brandish it like a blade. His brown eyes glittered with an unnameable emotion. 

"Come quietly Omar," Ahmed muttered in Klatchian.

"I don't think so," Omar replied, quite calmly. Fire flashed in his eyes. 

Blue sparks crackled down the length of his staff. It was a metal one, unusual in wizards who often preferred Sapient Pearwood. Ahmed raised his sword quickly as the sparks spluttered loudly in the quiet, casting a blue light in the dark street.

He swung the staff humming through the air. Ahmed bought his sword round to meet it, gripping the handle tightly; knowing that the thick metal would jar the blade and knock it out of his hands unless he gripped hard on the hilt of his sword.

The crackling blue sparks leapt from staff to sword, leaping down the blade and into the astonished Ahmed's hands. He shook, trying to wrench his sword free as the charge built up. There was a shrill buzzing as Omar's face contorted with fury and Ahmed flew backwards, sword still gripped in white knuckled hands. There was a faint sizzling as Ahmed hit a crumbling wall and was showered in dust and mortar. Blood tracked slowly down the side of his face from under his turban. 

Omar peered through the ravaged doorway as Reg Shoe appeared, his own sword raised. Omar sighed slightly, zombies were notoriously difficult to take down. He bought the staff round again and caught Reg across the side of his head. The stitching on his grey-green neck, not particularly good as it had been rather difficult for Reg to see when he had last stitched his neck, split. The force of the blow would have been enough to break the neck of a normal human, and it was no different for Reg. The difference was that he remained fully conscious and not in any real amount of pain. However, with his head now only partially attached to his body and hanging at a ninety degree angle he wasn't in a position to stop Omar from bringing the staff up again and smashing him over the head with it. Reg hit the floor as Omar ran his hand over the crumbling brickwork inside the house.

He muttered something and the bricks shook, working themselves loose from their thin layer of cement a flying out of the way, hitting Reg who was attempting to get back up again, steadying his head with his hands. There was thick stone behind the brickwork, but Omar was a master scholar. Stone was sometimes easier than brickwork, stone which remembered a time when it had been hot and runny. 

The rough blocks hummed, turning a dark red, then orange, then a ruddy yellow. Quite suddenly they were no longer rough cut blocks but running liquid, seeping away to leave a man sized hole in what had been a wall nearly six feet thick.

Inside there was a faint glow of Octarine light. Omar heard the screech as the lectern, shaped liked an eagle suddenly came to life, fixing him with a shining silver eye, flexing metal claws as the pages of the book chained to its back rustled like a roost of starlings.

Omar raised his staff and shouted the words of power. The eagle snarled at him as if it knew his purpose, but obedient to the spells that governed it, it became solid once more. All except its eye, which swivelled to follow the errant wizard malevolently.

The Watchmen and wizards behind the door knew what was going on by now. The pigeon set free by Ahmed had reached its destination, guards were headed in Omar's direction from all parts of the city. He could hear them shouting from behind the huge iron doors; the many bolts and chains, locks and seals were hampering them from reaching him. Omar gave them a big smile through the tiny barred grill in the door as he unlocked the chains with a tiny key. It twisted and smoked in every lock, moulding itself to the right shape. 

When a real wizard wants to do some damage there is very little that can be done to stop him. The whole purpose of founding Unseen University had been to keep the wizards together; in bickering amongst themselves in the name of study they had been kept from doing further damage to the Disc itself. Behind the big dinners and unkempt beards, robes that had seen better days and adapted hats, bottle-bottom glasses and oil stained hands from spending too long in the guts of various machines in the HEM building, not to mention Hex, there was a raw power instilled or simply inherent in the men and boys that this building practically imprisoned with its security; its regular meals and washed socks, made beds and warm fires. Unleashed, as it so rarely was nowadays, it could be unstoppable.

The Octavo freed from its chains, Omar hefted the weighty book in one hand, smiling still, and walked back through the hole in the wall. He melted away into the dark shadows and was gone by the time the back-up for the Visit and Shoe arrived, summoned by Ahmed's pigeon. The whole theft, from the first stone hitting the window, had taken less than ten minutes.

*

The pigeon sent on from the yard had flown in through an open window, startling Vimes and Lady Sybil. It was the prepared message from Ahmed; Vimes grinned. Omar had wasted no time in getting straight down to business. Vimes was confident that Ahmed could hold him long enough for back-up to arrive. He screwed up the slip of paper and gave Sybil an apologetic smile. "Go on," she said, making a shooing motion with her hand, "I know it's urgent." She paused for a moment and then added slightly more softly, "Hurry back?"

"Of course," he replied, slightly gratified she had added the question.

It took him five minutes to get to the back of the University. He didn't want to arrive wheezing so he jogged most of the way, walking quickly in some of the more crowded areas. He sped up slightly when he heard the shouting, and arrived in the middle of what appeared to be mass panic. 

There was no one above the rank of Corporal at the scene; Igor was tending to a watchman lying on the ground, Vimes couldn't see who through a forest of legs. "Hey!" he shouted.

Heads snapped round and relief was suddenly writ large on every face. "Commander Vimes!" 

"What the hell is going on here?" Vimes asked.

Panicked though his officers might be they remained obedient to their training. Corporal Littlebottom saluted nervously and began explaining. But Vimes didn't need to hear everything, he could already guess exactly what had happened. 

Igor had 'stabilised' Visit and was tending to Ahmed. Vimes hunkered down next to him, touching his shoulder lightly. Ahmed didn't seem quite able to focus and there was blood crusted all around his face. He didn't look good, crumpled like a ragdoll against a wall as Igor examined him quickly.

"I am.... sorry... your grace..."

"Don't start talking like that, Ahmed," Vimes said easily, "How did this happen?"

Ahmed, clinging to consciousness by sheer will power smiled thinly through the hazy pain. "Always a... copper... Sam Vimes.... magic... staff... sparks. He has... the book..." Ahmed's eyes rolled back into his head and his head flopped slightly to one side. 

Vimes didn't need to tell Igor how important it was for Ahmed to survive, he simply nodded to the doctor and stood up. Angua had arrived, looking somewhat dishevelled quite probably from a quick Change, and had ordered some of the watchmen away. Vimes trusted her judgement; he waited until she had supervised the stretcher-bearers who carried away Visit before touching her shoulder. She jerked around, looking as if she were about to react violently to his touch, but she curbed her instinct when she saw who it was. Vimes dropped his hand immediately. "Sorry," he said, knowing Angua could be... touchy sometimes when nervous.

"No, I apologise sir. I followed the trail as soon as we knew he'd got the book. He dropped a scent bomb unfortunately... but there is another away to find him..."

Vimes turned, following her gaze.

"Hi," said Rincewind, giving Vimes a little wave, face a picture of misery.

"You can help?" Vimes sounded incredulous.

"The Octavo emits Octarine. For a wizard Omar's trail is just a case of follow the glowing light." Rincewind sighed, looking along the street filled with the light trail. He'd had enough experiences with the Octavo to last him a lifetime and underneath all his worries about the blasted book there was a gnawing fear about what /could/ happen. Rincewind met Vimes's eyes, and Vimes saw the unregarded terror therein. 

"What?" Vimes asked hoarsely.

"If he reads from the book..." Rincewind began.

"We don't know if he's going to do that," Angua interjected quickly.

Rincewind gave her a grey look. "Trust me on this. If he's stolen the Octavo, he's not taken it to get it recovered by an antique book specialist. He's going to read the spells. If he does then there's a fairly large chance that creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions could break through." Rincewind shuddered in remembrance. 

"That doesn't sound good," Vimes said.

"It wouldn't be. Believe me on that."

"Then we have to stop him. You're our eyes and ears, Mr. Rincewind," Vimes said firmly.

"I was afraid of that," Rincewind muttered.

"Get the wizards in on this," Vimes continued, talking now to Angua. "From what Ahmed said he seems to be using a lot of magic to cause this much damage."

"Carrot's already sorting it sir," Angua replied.

Vimes grinned mirthlessly, reflecting briefly on the capability of his officers. "Right. Lead away then, Rincewind."

Rincewind closed his eyes, wondering if his chances of survival would be any better if he told Vimes 'no.' Not much better, he decided, opening his eyes again and pointing.

"That way."


	5. Lightning Strikes

Rincewind stared miserably at the imposing silhouette that was the Tower of Art against the darkening sky. He had known really, on some subconscious level perhaps, that this was where Omar would run to. It was an old wizard's tower after all; there was something at bone level which told a wizard to head for the high ground when the going got tough. 

Angua was sniffing the night air. "There's someone else with him," she declared, "Female by the smell of her perfume. Afraid.."

"The kidnapped girl?" Vimes said, "Why would he bring her up here?" There was a round of shrugs. The real question, of course, being why had Omar bothered to kidnap her in the first place and drag her all the way to Ankh-Morpork.

Rincewind coughed. "We need to stop him from reading the spells. The moment he does his mind with break and the... creatures will have a hole through which they can enter the world. I've seen it happen before."

"When?"

"When the red star appeared in the sky. One of the spells was in my head. If it wasn't for that bloody book I might have really made it as a wizard," Rincewind added bitterly.

"Then we'd better hurry," said Carrot. Behind him the senior wizards were hanging back slightly. Last time a wizard had read from the Octavo the senior staff had ended up as statuary, and no one wanted to end up as one of the stone sculptures that still graced some of the gardens, neck deep in ivy or covered in graffiti. 

"We shouldn't all go," Rincewind said suddenly.

"What?" The word was echoed by several people.

"We shouldn't all go. Some of us should stay here. If... we fail... it'll be easier to fight things coming out of the doors in pairs, or singularly."

There was a long pause.

"Alright," Vimes said, drawing his sword. "I'll go. No sense in risking everyone."

Rincewind sighed. "I'll join you. I'm the closest thing we've got to an expert, after all," he added gloomily.

"You first then, Rincewind," said Vimes as they walked slowly away from the silent group of watchmen and wizards.

Rincewind nodded wretchedly and lead Vimes onwards, up the hundreds and hundreds of stone steps. He stopped a few landings from the top and put a finger to his lips. There were voices audible from a higher level.

"Stay there girl!" said Omar, "Stop struggling." There were some noises, inaudible at this level. Omar laughed, a vaguely unctuous sound. "You stupid girl. I need you."

Vimes shot Rincewind a confused look, which Rincewind returned. They carried on upwards more slowly now, silently as possible. There was a slight mumbling from above and Rincewind's heart rate jumped slightly. Omar was reading the spells. Vimes heard it too. He started to move faster.

The floor was empty all the way to the hole in the wall through which Rincewind had thrown a creature from the Dungeon Dimensions /last/ time the Disc had been about to end.

Vimes knew it was a trap, it /had/ to be a trap, but what other option did he have? He leapt through the doorway and rolled on the floor. Omar, leaning against the wall with the Octavo in one hand, laughed. "Get up from the floor Mister Vimes," said the wizard in mock-politeness.

There was a young woman lying on the floor to Vimes's left. He ignored Omar and knelt next to her, the cold of the stone floor radiating up through his knees.

"Are you alright?" he said, touching her hand. She was as cold as ice.

"Come away from her please, Mister Vimes," said Omar, voice still level. Vimes continued to ignore him, checking the pulse of the girl. Her dark eyes, almost hidden under a fringe of black hair were unfocussed, full of pain.

"Don't worry," Vimes began, "We'll soon-" 

"I said come away!" snapped Omar, words sharp and clipped. Vimes still made no reply. For a moment nothing happened and then- 

Vimes cried out as what felt like an invisible set of hands clamped around his wrists, pulling him to his feet. Omar's own hand was outstretched and as Vimes turned the knuckles whitened as if Omar was gripping something in the empty air. He felt the invisible power clamp around his jaw jerking his head around to look at Omar. 

"Leave her alone," repeated Omar.

Vimes opened his mouth to reply but the grip on his wrists was painfully tight. "Give me the book, Omar," he said instead. The grip lessened and he started to move towards the wizard. "Just give it to me and no one will get hurt."

"No!" said Omar and Vimes felt a hand he couldn't see pressing against his chest, stopping him from walking any further.

Vimes looked back over his shoulder at the girl. "Why do you need her?" he asked.

"She is my daughter," Omar replied.

"I thought wizards weren't allowed to have children?" Vimes said, trying to keep the man talking and distracted.

"They aren't," Omar said. "I didn't know she existed until I returned home from my studies. Her mother was... an old friend."

"You murdered her. The woman; her mother."

"No!" Omar replied softly, looking now at the floor.

"You strangled her," Vimes continued, almost taunting Omar. That way maybe the wizard would attack him, leaving Rincewind free to get a shot at retrieving the Octavo.

"I didn't... I couldn't..." Omar stared at the floor, lost in his own thoughts. Vimes felt he pressure on his chest lessen... If he could just push forward and get to the damn book...

"I don't think so, Mister Vimes," said Omar. Rincewind, hiding in the corridor, heard the hollow thump as the invisible hand slammed into Vimes's ribs again. "Stay there. It's almost time."

"What are you trying to do, Omar?"

"Fix it."

"Fix what?"

"The Disc," Omar answered, waving his free hand vaguely. "I have studied for a long time. He... the Creator... He got it wrong. One of the spells. But I know what He said... I know how to change it. Think about it Mister Vimes! A world without pain or anguish, war or greed. Anger... or hatred."

"You're insane," Vimes countered, "No one can change the world. Not like that. Why do you need your daughter? You could at least let her go."

"I need her for the final spell. The ninth spell. To make things work again. I knew you'd come here alone. You don't like to risk your men. I needed you to arrive, or that fool Ahmed. He would have done the same. The body of my enemy, for possession." Omar was babbling now, talking about something Vimes couldn't understand, but he let the wizard carry on, every second of time gained was a good thing. "Blood of my kin. That's why I need her, too. Her blood."

"I can't let you do this, Omar," said Vimes looking deep into the liquid brown eyes of the maniac. And they /were/ the eyes of a maniac now, tinged with the zealous fire, wide and staring; the lights were blazing but Vimes was quite certain that no one was home.

"You can't stop me Mister Vimes!" shouted Omar suddenly, "I can make your very bones turn against you! I can make you believe you are a frog, or a fly... or that your body is filled with live ants."

"Probably," Vimes agreed trying to ignore the thump of his heart in his chest, the bang of blood in his ears, a rapid pulse.

Omar turned away from Vimes and started to read. The air felt hot suddenly, dry and full of static.

Rincewind grabbed Vimes, just as the watchman was about to charge the wizard. "Wait!"

"Why?!"

"--" A huge explosion of noise drowned out Rincewind's reply. The whole Tower of Art seemed to shake to its very foundations. Stone chippings fell from the ceiling, draping all the men in a layer of dust. 

Omar was shaking as if he was convulsing. "That's why," muttered Rincewind, "If we'd have tried anything before he would have blown us to bits."

"He can't now?" Vimes said, watching the shaking man.

Rincewind shook his head. "He doesn't need to now."

"Why-?"

Vimes's question was drowned out by the wail from Omar. He shrieked, throwing out his arms wide... and it seemed to Vimes that his arms continued to spread long after they should have stopped, elongating; claws bursting from the end of his finger tips. The Octavo slipped from his grasp as the cry became deeper, rawer. 

More animal. 

There was a sickening, crunching sound as Omar's head split; something vaguely insect like bursting forth, mandibles dripping with human fluids.

"Get the book, get the girl and get out," said Vimes, lips barely moving.

Rincewind paused for a moment as his two basic instincts came into conflict; survival in pole position followed closely by his sense of moral obligation. "Why?" he said slowly.

"Because I've got a sword and you haven't."

It was a good argument, and one Rincewind was prepared to accept. 

"Okay."

The creature, whatever it was, roared, turning eight eyes onto the two men. "I'll go left. You go right."

The creature lunged forward; Vimes dived left as Rincewind rolled right. Vimes found his feet and came up, sword drawn. The creature regarded him for a moment and then swiped at him with a claw. Vimes was surprised to find that when he parried the blow with his sword the arm was sliced neatly and fell to the floor. 

The creature screamed and charged at Vimes. His sword was knocked away and he heard it skitter across the floor. The.. Thing was on him, all hot blood, breath and bristling hair. Its jelly-red eyes were a few centimetres from his own. He reached out, clawing at its face, kicking it fiercely, bringing his knee up to pound it in the abdomen as well. It reacted by trying to bite him, huge mandibles clamping down on his shoulder. He felt the links of his chainmail digging into his flesh, but it offered quite a lot of protection from the teeth. 

Vimes lowered his head and butted the creature. It flailed madly as he slammed a palm into what he assumed was a face blindly. It was easier than fighting a human somehow, when Vimes always had to be mindful of leaving marks that didn't show in later interrogations, of trying to disarm and injure rather than kill; of not allowing the beast off its chain, /not/ letting it make the kill.

Here there was no such need. He punched the thing again as it tried to shift position, bite into flesh rather than metal. Vimes bought his knees up and pushed hard against the thing. They rolled over and over. Vimes was on top of it now, hitting it again and again, using his elbow as a hammer. His hands were slippery with a greenish blood.

The creature wailed in pain; Vimes recognised the anguished cry as a death rattle, heralding the end. He hit it again and it bit into his arm, not protected by any armour. Vimes roared in pain and smacked the creature one final time. He wondered briefly if the mandible was poisoned as the world began to spin sickly, fading slowly from sight. He hit the floor unconscious.


	6. Thunder Rumbles

"He's where?" said Carrot, looking puzzled.

"The Dungeon Dimensions," Rincewind repeated, looking throughly wretched.

"Where's that?" Cheery said.

Ridcully sighed. "We don't actually /know/ as such. It's a sort of sub-Disc dimension. There's only been one person who has ever returned from there."

"Me," said Rincewind.

"You?"

Rincewind nodded, his face oddly closed; he was reliving what were possibly the worst experiences in his life. /Probably/ the worst. There were a lot to choose from after all.

"Can we get him /out/?" said Carrot firmly.

The wizards exchanged uncomfortable looks. "Possibly," said the Dean. 

"How did /you/ get out?" asked Cheery, a bite of impatience in her voice as all eyes turned to Rincewind.

"Uh, a demonologist performed a summoning as I was passing through. Pure coincidence, I'm afraid," Rincewind said.

"We've got HEX and some of the younger wizards working on possible solutions right now. As it is, we think we may have way to contact Mister Vimes," Ridcully added, "And Rincewind has offered to act as... kind of a guide for the time being, to keep the Commander out of trouble until we can find a way to bring him back."

Carrot sighed. "Alright. I'm going to go and speak to Lady Sybil," he said. Around the room various people looked away, saddened suddenly at the remembrance that it was not only their Commander affected by his disappearance, but his wife and son too.

*

Vimes woke up very suddenly, mostly due to the fact that something with incredibly sharp teeth had just bitten into his leg. He hit it across the head and it let go, jumping out of reach more in surprise than hurt. Vimes unsheathed his dagger and slashed wildly at the thing as it hopped closer for another attempt at consuming him. It was vaguely chicken-like; a big, scaly and ugly chicken. He hit it across a wing and it squawked, running away across the grey sand, rapidly disappearing from sight.

Vimes sat up properly and tried to work out where the hell he was. Beneath him there was a thin, grey sand; overhead a blank sky almost opalescent directly above him, fading to a grubby white as his eyes tracked along and down to where there should be a horizon... Instead there was a black band of darkness that drew the eyes to it, making Vimes squint as he stared deeper and deeper into the blackness, inextricably drawn to it...

He tore his eyes away and turned his attention to his still bleeding leg. The chicken-thing had torn quite a large gash in his left leg; blood was coursing down his shin. He hurriedly ripped his shirt sleeves to make a bandage which he wrapped tightly around the wound in an attempt to staunch the blood flow.

He struggled to his feet, wincing at the pain from his stricken limb. His arm ached where the creature had bitten him, there were plenty of fresh bruises and his knuckles were raw and scabbed. He had no other resources that his armour and knife, the clothes he stood up in and the cigars he carried. He was obviously a long way from home and he was bleeding. Wherever he was it was also apparently home to carnivorous small leathery birds too. Vimes couldn't think of many situations he had been in that were worse than this one.

Well, there was no sense in standing here bleeding on the sand all day. He ought to start moving before the damn chicken turned up with some friends. One knife was not going to be a lot of use against more than one or two of the things . But which direction should he move in? As far as the eye could see the grey desert stretched in all directions. There were no real footprints in the sand; a couple of three toed bird tracks and a disturbingly snake-like trail that was nearly four inches in width, but nothing humanoid.

In the end Vimes settled for going in the opposite direction to the chicken. It seemed a sensible decision. At first he moved steadily over the sands, listening to the crunch of his booted feet on the grey grains. Eventually he came across a sort of track. Whatever had made the huge footprints in the grime Vimes was quite keen to avoid, but whichever way he turned after about half an hour of walking he would miraculously end up back on the path again. Sometimes he was even following his own prints. 

It was frustrating; he /knew/ he was moving in a straight line, one foot following another. Yet even when he turned to see his tracks leading back the way he had come in an almost mathematically straight column when he face forward in front of him would lie, accusingly, the track. After a while he simply resigned himself to following it. There was little else he could do.

Inevitably his footsteps began to falter. Blood was dripping down his leg again, the bandage soaked with fluid from a wound which didn't seem to want to clot. He stumbled a few times, boots scuffing the edges of the monstrous trails. His tongue was glued to his palette and he recognised through his exhaustion the symptoms of excessive blood loss beginning to affect him. He felt light headed, almost emotionless; the pain in his leg faded to a dull prickling as he very slowly began the inexorable slide into unconsciousness. He kept moving doggedly onward although it did not seem as if he ever made any progress, as if he was walking on a treadmill under the hideous sky.

He staggered as his dragging gait caused him to overbalance, tripped over a particularly deep imprint and fell face down on the floor. He could taste the sweet, metallic tang of blood in his mouth now, but he felt to tired to care. The sharp new taste was a welcome relief from the monotony of having a mouth full of dried saliva, acting like glue on the tongue; he savoured it.

He knew he shouldn't stop; a part of him chided the rest for lying so helplessly on the floor. The unchangeable rock-hard core of cynicism that was always with him told him to get up. He ignored it. He only wanted to rest for a minute, just one minute... was a minute so bad? Then he would get up and carry on moving. He just needed a rest for a moment, a minute to collect his thoughts and prepare for more hours of journey over the sands- 

He fell asleep.

  
  


"Mister Vimes? Mister Vimes?" An unfamiliar voice dragged Vimes kicking and screaming through the layers of blissful insensibility and back into the harsh reality of his waking world. His eyes flickered open; he turned over and he stared blankly at the white sky which seemed to be bulging, extruding out in a kind of bubble right above him... and speaking to him.

As he stared blearily, aching more than he had ever done in his life and feeling weak as a swamp-dragon hatchling, the slightly anxious face of Rincewind resolved itself above him, contained in the shiny sky-bubble.

"Hello," said Vimes faintly.

"You need to get up, Mister Vimes," said Rincewind, "They'll be coming for you, you don't want to stop moving; They'll catch you."

"Who will?" Vimes remained lying down, not certain he had the strength to sit.

"They will," Rincewind said, "It doesn't matter who They are, you just don't want to be caught by Them."

"Oh. Right," said Vimes, experiencing a sensation akin to extreme drunkenness where nothing really mattered very much; the whole world was a pink-tinged cloud of happiness. Actually, even when drunk the world had never become pink and happy for Sam Vimes, thus it was a new experience and one he was trying to cherish.

"You need to stop the bleeding from the bite in your leg," Rincewind continued.

What leg? Vimes wondered briefly. On balance he decided it was probably the one he could barely feel, full of splinters or so it seemed. He stared at it blearily, wondering if it was normally so red and sticky.

"Lick the wound," Rincewind instructed.

"Lick it?" Vimes echoed, "It's on my leg!"

"Well, spit on your hand and rub in the saliva," Rincewind suggested.

"Why?" asked Vimes, trying to comply anyway before the explanation arrived.

"The saliva is the only thing that stops the anti-clotting agent in the wound from the scalies. You've lost a lot of blood."

"Scalies?" Vimes queried. He managed to sit up, spat into his hand and started to rub the saliva into the wound. It stung quite fiercely and the worm of pain snaking up his leg helped jolt Vimes back into reality. He cradled his head in his hand. 

"The chickeny thing that bit you. That's what I called them. Scalies. They feed on dead or dying organisms. Or sleeping ones, actually. Annoying creatures."

Vimes tried to think through the fog that had apparently invaded his brain. "How're you speaking to me?" he asked, unable to think of anything else to say.

"Ponder- he's managed to get a crystal ball to link into the Dungeon Dimensions. HEX did some calculations. It's not enough to get you out, but it's a start. I'm going to act as your guide. I've been in the Dungeon Dimensions before, see, and survived. I can help you until we're ready to get you out."

"Oh right," said Vimes, feeling his more normal 'angry' state of mind disperse some of the fog of fatigue; the irritation caused as he mulled over the phrase 'until we're ready to get you out.'

"Can you walk?"

Vimes could, but not well. He limped heavily on his injured left leg. "Where do I need to walk to?" 

"You need to get off the track," Rincewind informed him.

Vimes gritted his teeth against the pain and growing frustration. "I /know/ that. /How/ is the question I'm asking."

"Er... Just keep walking off at a tangent from the tracks..."

"Surprisingly enough, Rincewind, I have already tried that!" Vimes exclaimed, exasperated, pain making him even more short tempered than normal, "I just end up back on it again a few minutes later!"

"Cross the path when you come to it again. And then you'll go... elsewhere," Rincewind said.

Vimes sighed, not liking these cryptic clues as to what was coming next. He began hobbling off at ninety degrees to the track. "Who are They?" he enquired.

Rincewind looked uncomfortable from what Vimes could see of his face, made strangely bulbous by the refraction of the crystal. "Um. Well..." Seeing Vimes's deepening frown Rincewind decided that honesty was probably the best policy. "There's three sorts of creatures that inhabit the Dungeon Dimensions see. There's little creatures like the scalies. Fairly harmless in small numbers; they run away if you give them a good kick, at least for a while. 

"Then there's the medium ones. They're the type you fought in the tower. Nasty things but...beatable. Best to avoid a fight with them though. And never try to take on more than one.

"And then there's Them. The big ones. They're intelligent... or cunning... There's more to them than just the desire for light. I don't think you can apply human descriptors to them. They /send/ the medium sized ones through holes in the fabric of reality, they don't like to risk their own skin. They built the amphitheatre and they organise the fights too... They're dangerous. If you see them just run."

"I'm good at running," murmured Vimes.

"No, you're good at chasing," Rincewind replied, "There's a difference between that and running away."

"What's the amphitheatre?" asked Vimes, as if working down a mental check list.

Rincewind visibly shuddered. "It's the only building that exists here. They built it. They all watch the fights. Now They know that you're here They'll be looking for you. They want you to fight some of Their gladiators. They enjoy it. That's why you must run, as fast as you can as soon as you even think they might be near. Because if They do catch you, then you really will be in big trouble."

"Did They ever catch you?"

Vimes looked up to see Rincewind nod. "Oh yes," he said softly, "They caught me." Rincewind felt automatically for the scars across his back, a constant reminder of his second battle in the amphitheatre. "I got the biggest scars I ever received in my life from fighting in there."

Vimes walked in silence for a while, not daring to look up and see if Rincewind was still watching from the crystal ball as he doubted he could look up and not fall over. He was stumbling again, falling twice before he reached the path again. 

"I'm back on the track," Vimes said. There was no reply; glancing up Vimes saw the sky was empty again. For a moment he felt as if he had been kicked, an odd hollow terror welling up inside him. He was on his own, he didn't know what to do...

However, he had a damn good idea. Cross the path, Rincewind had said. If the wizard had managed to survive here Vimes was certain that he could. 

Even if he was older. 

And had absolutely no training in any sort of magic. 

And had lost a lot of blood. 

And had no real weapons.

He physically shook himself to stop the mental additions. No sense in over-dramatising his predicament, was there?

He stepped onto the path, took a deep breath and cross it. There was a curious sensation, a wind whistled in his ears and rustled his greying hair for a brief second and then, just as Rincewind had said, he was... elsewhere.

He knew immediately he was somewhere completely knew because there was a rocky outcrop some way ahead of him. Fingers of black stone seemed to simply protrude from the flat expanse of sands. Vimes wondered whether he should head towards it or stay away. On balance it seemed sensible to head towards it. There might be caves where he could sleep... or at least a place where he could feel secure; out of the gaze of what felt like an ever-watchful sky, like a blood-shot huge eye above him.

  
  


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Anyone else had problems uploading to ff.net?? Sheesh! 

Hope you enjoy anyway, Lunar.


	7. The Pounding Of Raindrops So Hard They S...

The towering fingers of stone were warm to the touch, the dark rock seemingly absorbing all the light and reflecting none of it back, but retaining the warmth. One of the huge pillars seemed to have fallen at one time, knocking others down around it and creating a network of thin crevasses, caves and slopes all made of the same fractured black materials. Vimes scrabbled up and along one of the crevasses, his feet sending mini land slides of tiny black pebbles cascading down onto the sands now some way below. 

He reached a sort of plateau, the flat top of a huge pillar where two slabs of stone had fallen against each other to form a long, thin cave. He scrambled inside, the entrance barely large enough to admit a man, bumping his helmet on the ceiling.

Vimes slithered along on his belly, beginning to wonder if creeping in here was the best of ideas. Quite suddenly the cave widened. Vimes was puzzled, from the outside the cave hadn't looked particularly large, no more than a stone tent. It was so dark inside that Vimes was effectively blind but he could sense that the walls were no longer pressing in around him. His hands touched something other than the smooth black stones. It felt like cold ashes from a long dead fire. As he crawled forward again, now on his hands and knees, he collided with a tripod over the ashes.

Vimes removed his helmet and armour. He lay on his back in the dark and tried to make the pain in his shoulder and leg go away. He knew he was going to fall asleep again soon, he was feeling dizzy and sick. Vimes covered his eyes with his hands, lying full length in the darkness and fell asleep.

The sound of a rhythmic wheezing eventually woke Sam Vimes; his own breathing he realised after a while. His leg was so stiff he doubted he could bend his knee, but his other wounds appeared to be healing. He lay very still in the dark, weak from blood loss.

Vimes was stretched out in the curious zone between sleep and waking when Rincewind's face appeared on the roof of his cave. "Are you awake, Mister Vimes?"

Vimes sighed slightly, wondering what Rincewind's reaction would be if he replied 'yes.' "What?" he settled for instead, voice croaking as if his throat was full of sand.

"I think you ought to hunt for some food," Rincewind said, somewhat uncertain of Vimes's reaction.

Vimes laughed, a terrible sound in the dim light, dry and cracked, little more than a wheeze. "You're not serious?"

Rincewind frowned slightly. "Yes. There's some spears in the corner. Get one."

Vimes sat up slowly, still dizzy, and crawled over to the indicated corner. There were indeed some spears; wooden ones with black stone tips. "You made these?"

"Yes," Rincewind replied.

Vimes tested the tip of one of the spears with his thumb, finding them quite sharp. "They're good," he said shortly. 

"Go outside. Head high, the scalies like to stay up high and out of the way of the others."

"How fast do they move?" Vimes asked, wiggling his way towards the exit.

"About as fast as a running man," Rincewind said, sighing. 

Outside the landscape was exactly as it had been when Vimes had crawled into the cave. Rincewind had disappeared, probably, Vimes realised to allow him to hunt more successfully. Head for the high ground the man had said. Vimes turned his eyes upwards to the huge towering pillars of stone. Surely Rincewind didn't mean climb all the way up?

Apparently he did, the lower levels of the fallen rocks yielded nothing more than black and grey dust, what looked like rabbit droppings and tracks. Vimes, limping on his injured leg surveyed the shiny black stone walls with dismay. There didn't appear to be any hand-holds, or paths or...

... there /was/ a path; almost vertical in places but snaking all the way up to one of the highest rocks. Vimes deflated slightly, realising how far he was going to have to climb, but he gritted his teeth and set off; boots slipping on the loose chippings.

Nearly half an hour later he was clinging to the black rock face that stood at an almost ninety degree angle, spear looped through his belt and fingers sliding on the rocks with sweat. His leg was shaking as he tried to push off from the wall, unable to hold his weight. He managed to get a more firm hold and pulled himself up onto a narrow rock shelf, arms screaming with the effort. 

He nearly landed on top of a scaly that was asleep. It leapt up as Vimes rolled. Fumbling for his spear he landed a vicious kick on the creature's head. Stunned, it stumbled, and Vimes bought his spear around and down. It screamed as the black stone pierced its skin. He twisted the spear and the cry rose a tone in agony and then abruptly stopped. 

Vimes lay panting on the dusty ledge, slightly stunned that it had been this easy. With a shaking hand he reached out to touch the dead creature, gripping it by the wing. A hiss of laughter escaped through his teeth, tinged with hysteria. He had done it. He pulled his spear free. Now all he had to do was to get himself and dinner back down to the cave.

There was chittering form above and a little dust glittered in the still air for a moment, settling on Vimes's bloody shirt; criss-crossed with the mesh pattern of his chain-mail. He looked upwards as more dust fell. He shifted his grip on his spear.

Heads were appearing, staring down at him from high above. Vaguely chicken like, they regarded Vimes and the dead scaly with a blank-eyed interest. Instinctively Vimes started to move, but it was slightly too late. As one creature twelve of the scalies further up leapt, all fighting to be the first to sink their jaws into their fallen brother. Vimes flailed wildly, trying to defend his kill from the leathery beasts; kicking punching and jabbing with his spear.

He grabbed the body and rolled away from the scalies, slithered over the edge of the rock slope, groped wildly for a handhold as he slid, missed one, and juddered down the rock face to land with a bone jarring crunch at the bottom of the slope. 

"Argh!"

There was no time to lie still and recapture the breath that had been knocked from his body, or to worry about how many bones he had broken or bruised in his fall. There was blood in his eyes, he blinked it away as he lurched away as quickly as he could. Incapable of anything other than a sort of high-speed wobble he was amazed five minutes later, back at the mouth of his cave to find that the scalies hadn't followed him. He dropped the carcass on the floor and slumped down next to it, trying to rub the blood out of his eyebrows. From the feel of it he had managed to cut himself above his right eyebrow. There were scrapes on his arms and already bruises were forming on the parts of him that had first come into contact with the ground. 

On the upside he was alive, and he had dinner. He lay back on the ground and screwed up his eyes.

"Oh. You caught one then."

Vimes opened his eyes to see Rincewind's face above him, contained in the curious bubble. "Yes," he wheezed, "I caught one."

"Well, there's not a lot of wood available here, you might have noticed. There's some saplings about half a mile away that I used to make the spears. The best thing to burn around here is-" 

"Scaly dung?" Vimes said, closing his eyes again.

"Good guess."

"Great," Vimes said, still lying down. "Fantastic."

"Uh, Captain Carrot thought you'd like to know that the Octavo is safe again, Constables Shoe and Visit are fine, and Ahmed is recovering well."

"Even better."

Rincewind sighed slightly, rubbing tired eyes caused by excessive crystal gazing. Although he himself wasn't supplying the raw power to open the link between the Disc and the Dungeon Dimensions it still took a lot of his energy simply to remain focussed on Commander Vimes; to keep the crystal ball 'on target' as it were. Rincewind hated the things as it was. Peering into the orbs had never been much of a wizardly pursuit; it was much preferred by mediums and witches. Wizards had far more important things to do than spy on other people. Eating big dinners, for a start. Or sleeping. 

The small figure splayed on the ground, distorted by the curved surface of the ball appeared to reach a decision. "Alright. I'll go and look for some fuel. I've got a few matches, anyway." Vimes's voice was tinny and echoed slightly, as if it was coming from the bottom of a well.

"There should be some left in the cave, actually," Rincewind said and Vimes smiled thinly. For the first time that day things seemed to be going his way.

*

It is, by now, an oft repeated 'fact' that all 'foreign foods' taste like chicken. Vimes had eaten all sorts of things since becoming Sir Samuel rather than just plain old Sam at various diplomatic functions. Rabbit, alligator and other unidentified substances he had ingested all defied sensory description, except for the now legendary statement 'tastes a bit like rubbery chicken.'

Scaly tasted a bit like rubbery chicken. Vimes had skinned it and removed most of the more unidentifiable innards. The smoke from the cooking fire writhed in the sky and stung Vimes's eyes. It worried him slightly, smoke being possibly the best way of announcing his presence to any creature out in the expanses of desert looking for him. Singeing his fingers on the hot flesh and burning his tongue Vimes bolted down as much of the creature as he could manage, storing the rest of it in the cave in a sort of larder Rincewind had constructed from rocks. Then he sat back, enjoying the flickering warmth from the fire and reached into his jacket.

He pulled out his silver cigar case, still nestling in his pocket as always. Its weight was always a comfort to him, but in his brief moment of calm staring at the shining silver he felt a terrible sadness welling up inside him. He opened the case and extracted a cigar, lighting it from the burning fire and sitting back, tracing the letters of the inscription within with his thumb. It seemed strange to Vimes to admit, although not being a strange thing in itself, that he missed his wife and his son. It was not something he'd ever really experienced before... well, obviously he'd missed Sybil on occasions when he had been out of Ankh-Morpork, but generally he'd got more pressing things on his mind; such as who was trying to kill him and how to avoid them. Or how to stop two armies from fighting each other. 

But now, even though there was plenty to worry about here, his chief concern was for his family. The nagging anxiety that lurked mostly in the pit of his stomach was mostly to do with how much of his son's 'firsts' he was going to miss. How old were babies when they first smiled? He'd heard six weeks. He hadn't got a clue as to when Sam's first tooth might arrive. Just how long was he going to be stuck here, living off his wits and Rincewind's guidance? How big would Sam be when his father next got to see him? Would he ever get to see him again?

Vimes shut the case with a snap and tried to repress that thought. He tucked the case away again, close to his heart and exhaled slowly. Sleep, he decided; he'd feel better for some sleep. He kicked out the fire and crawled back inside the cave, to slumber.


	8. A Clearing of the Sky

Andrew Vimes slammed the door of his tiny room at the YMPA open in a spectacularly bad mood. He'd forgotten how godsdamn /idiotic/ the people of Ankh-Morpork could be on occasion; and all members of the Vimes family refused to suffer fools gladly.

He blinked. Sitting on the chipped cane chair rather awkwardly opposite the door was Lady Sybil. She looked a little different to when he had last seen her, grey under they eyes and pale but as always there was a good-natured faint smile and a elegant manner of sitting with skirts neatly folded. In the grey-washed walled bedroom tainted with the slight smell of disinfectant the sadly smiling duchess sitting on his only chair seemed a very strange notion indeed.

"Hello Andrew," she said politely.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, my lady?"

Lady Sybil sighed, and looked down at her hands which were clasped in her lap. "Sam's in trouble and he needs your help."

Andrew sniffed. "What kind of trouble?"

Sybil met his gaze again and this time there was a glint in her eye and a slight tightening of her jaw that reminded Andrew very strongly of his little brother. "I tell you what. If you answer one of my questions, I'll answer one of yours."

Andrew smiled slightly, listening to Sam's voice through his wife's mouth There must be something about us Vimeses, Andrew thought, that makes other people speak for us when we can no longer speak for ourselves. "Okay, Lady Sybil. Ask away."

"Why is Sam so angry with you?"

Andrew sighed. "That's a big question, Lady Sybil. It could take a long time to answer."

"I've got plenty of time, Mister Vimes." Which was a lie, because Angua and Cheery were babysitting little Sam and their shift started in thirty minutes but Lady Sybil had learned a lot from her husband.

Andrew sat down on the rumpled covers of his bed and put his head in his hands. When he eventually spoke it was through the gap between his arms. "I guess it all started when our father died. Sam was only three. I don't think he can even remember Dad." Andrew hesitated. "Sergeant Vimes of the Night Watch; he was murdered. I was eight at the time and... I like to think I knew Dad quite well." 

"I'm so sorry," Lady Sybil murmured automatically.

"It was a long time ago. There were no pensions for widows and orphans in those days," Andrew continued. He smiled suddenly, crookedly. "I heard that Sam created the widows and orphans fund when he was appointed Commander."

"Yes," murmured Lady Sybil.

"Proving I guess that the experiences of our childhood shapes the choices we make in our adult lives," Andrew said, almost to himself, "Sam doesn't want you to know what happened to us... to him... when he was younger. It's not a nice story. I don't blame him for that."

"I know."

"After Dad died our mother took up all sorts of jobs to try and keep our heads above water. Couldn't look after Sam anymore so he got shunted around the place, playing with the other kids in the street. Sometimes Mrs. Easy looked after us. When Sam was four he was allowed to join the junior class at the local dame school which helped a bit. Things were... sort of alright... for about three years. Dad had a bit of money set by, Mam worked all hours and me and Sam ran errands. But eventually the money ran out when I was twelve.

"When Mam realised that we were really in trouble she took out a loan with the Smiling Loan Company in the Shades. We knew something was up when the first repayment was something like a third of the original loan amount. Couldn't pay back the loan sharks..." Andrew stopped for a moment and Lady Sybil saw that he was visibly shaking, and sweat was beading on his forehead visible through his hands.

"So they waited for Sam one day after school. He was only eight..." Andrews voice cracked. "And he was tiny, a real little kid. They nearly killed him. When we found him I offered to work for them instead, to repay our debts. I left school and did jobs for them. Not nice jobs. But I was a big lad in those days; never tall but stocky, like Mam's side of the family. And things were alright again.

"When I turned sixteen I started to realise that I was /never/ going to be able to run enough errands to ever repay the debts. They wouldn't ever let me go. They'd got a willing slave to do all their nasty jobs and there was nothing I could do about it. I was angry and I'd learnt all sorts of nasty things with the SLC. 

"Then I met Bill. He was in one of the street gangs and he invited me to join them. And he helped me come up with a plan of how I could escape, and he promised to help Mam and Sam after I was gone. We would set fire to the house after I staged an argument with my boss. I'd flee the city and never return, start a new life somewhere else. The gang would blame the SLC and they'd look out for Mam and Sam afterwards; they'd be under the gang's protection."

"But it didn't work?"

"Oh no, for me it worked perfectly. I was in Quirm by the time the fire had been put out and from there... the rest of the Disc. But it didn't work out like I hoped for those I left behind."

"What happened?"

"I don't know exactly; that's what I've been trying to find out while I've been in Ankh-Mopork. I think that after I was gone Bill and the others demanded repayments for their 'services rendered.' So Sam ended up in their gang doing pretty much the same sort of thing I did until he was seventeen... and then something happened... I don't know what... and Sam got out of it. Quite legally and without burning down any houses. He joined the Watch... and the rest is history."

There was silence for a while, broken only by the dripping of the tap in the far corner. "Sam needs your help now," Sybil said quietly.

"How can I help him?" Andrew asked.

"He's trapped in the Dungeon Dimensions and part of the spell to bring him back involves the blood of a close relative. You're the only one Sam has left... well the only person old enough to donate blood. And you shared some of the strongest experiences of his life with Sam; his most poignant. You can 'call him back.' At least, that's what Mister Stibbons said."

"Pardon?"

*

  
  


Vimes was running as hard and fast as he could. Faster than he had ever run in his life, ignoring the stabbing pains in his leg, the frantic hammering of his heart and the sweat stinging his eyes as he streaked across the desert sands at the head of a column of dust. Behind him the creature was gaining, drops of saliva from its jaws flying out behind it to speckle the sand. 

"Ahhhahhahaaa!!" The cry escaped Vimes's throat with no prompting from his brain, basic primal instinct as he desperately tried to evade capture, to make it back to the cave.

He wasn't going to make it. He knew it in his very bones but he had to try, he had to run. The creature was covering the ground between them in long easy strides and the black fingers of rock that Vimes had, over the past three weeks, grown to call home were still too far away. 

Rincewind had warned him that there was no real way to escape from Them. Rincewind had known that They were searching for him, and really the wizard had not held out any hopes that Vimes would be able to evade capture for any great length of time. Three weeks was probably a new record as it was.

Vimes screamed as the creature hit him across the back and he sprawled in the sand, rolling quickly to his feet to try and run again, but a tentacle snaked around his leg and pulled him over. 

The creature was on him, holding him in the sand; so huge he could do nothing to fight against its grip. Tentacles wrapped around his writs and ankles, pressed against his chest and curled around his chin to make him look directly into the eyes of the creature. There were three of them, dark as the gash in the sky between the sky and land here and Vimes felt as if he was drowning in them. They spoke of an evil so ancient and so terrible that another cry rose from inside his chest to erupt from dry lips.

The eyes regarded him for a moment and then another tentacle rose to strike him hard across the face and he fell unconscious.

When he came to he was in a cage, which confused him somewhat. The bars appeared to be made from cold metal judging by what he could feel (it being too dark to see clearly). He could hear muted cries from somewhere. They didn't sound human. His face hurt, and one eye was effectively blind, forced closed by a swelling in his cheek from the tentacle blow. In the clammy dark his injured leg was aching again slightly.

He lay in the blackness for sometime until footsteps made him grope for the bars in the dark and used them to pull himself upright. Light flared in the dark, flickering shadows illuminating a grotesque parody of the humanoid form limping towards him, hunchbacked and twisted and growling under its breath. 

"Come," it rumbled, voice thick and alien but understandable.

Vimes waited for the door of the cell to be unlocked and then allowed himself to be prodded out of the prison. In the gloom around him huge hulking shapes huddled on the edge of sight. His legs were shaking, he realised dimly, and he doubted that the trembling had much to do with cold or injury.

There was a door ahead of him, light spilling in through the gap in the wall which he was pushed through.

He immediately realised where he must be. Stands encircled an oval of gravel scored with claw marks full of monsters. Medium sized ones mostly, but here and there Vimes could see the bulky shapes of Them. A hush came over the Amphitheatre as he stumbled out and across the gravel. All eyes turned to watch him as wind whipped the tattered remains if his clothes.

At the other end of the stadium was another door, exactly the same as the one Vimes had lurched through. Out of it crawled a creature Vimes had not encountered before. Vaguely insect like it reminded Vimes of a praying mantis, scythe like forearms held curled and ready as it stepped forward on four smaller limbs. It's head was insectoid too, bulbous compound eyes and mandibles. However, unlike most bugs this mantis was about eight feet tall and at least as long as it was high. It's exoskeleton gleamed in the strange light and all at once every creature in the Amphitheatre was screeching or roaring, the stamping of various ill assorted feet making the gravel chips rattle.

Vimes swore under his breath filled with the quiet, calm dread that proceeds certain death. In his pocket was his knife and he still wore most of his watchman's armour. But what use was plate and chain-mail going to be against the gladiator, capable of cleaving his head from his shoulders with one swipe?

"I thought I told you to just run?" said a voice behind Vimes.

"I did," Vimes informed Rincewind, "They ran faster."

Rincewind sighed. It would have been too much to hope that Vimes would manage to successfully avoid Them anyway. "The trick is, I always found, to injure the gladiator enough to make it bleed profusely. Then the crowd attacks it anyway and you can run away in the confusion."

"Great advice," Vimes said, his lips barely moving, "And how exactly do you injure something that size with a /knife?/"

"With great difficulty?"

"Oh gods."

The creature advanced and the baying of the crowd rose in Vimes's ears. He drew his knife and waited, expecting the onslaught. Vimes ducked left and rolled away as the creature bought a scythe-like-arm down. He slashed out wildly with the knife in a desperate attempt to wound the creature before it hit him.

The creature spun wildly and caught Vimes across his cheek as Vimes leapt backwards to avoid the blow. He swung the knife again, missed, dropped and rolled backwards as the scythe hummed through the air again.

Vimes regained his feet and immediately had to leap out of the way of another blow. He wasn't quite fast enough and the flat of the scythe blade caught him across the ribs. He spun and hit the ground hard, winded and scrambled away quickly. The creature advanced on him again and sudden realisation struck.

He kicked out, caught the creature in the chest and slid backwards across the gravel. Enraged, it reared screeching and Vimes threw the knife. Vimes wasn't particularly good at throwing knives but for once his aim was true. 

With a horrible squelching noise the knife hit the creature in the eye. It squealed and Vimes was aware of the palpable change in the atmosphere as the creature writhed. Just as the scalies did when Vimes made a kill, the monsters charged as one creature. The flapping of leathery wings and scrape of claws on stone made Vimes clamp his hands over his ears as the noise became deafening. The crowd of creatures washed over him and he was kicked this way and that as they stampeded to get the injured mantis. He felt claws rake his back as he crawled out of the way, as the feeding frenzy began. He ran as fast as he could away from the amphitheatre. Eventually, when he judged he was far enough away, he slowed to a walk; heading home.

"Good gods Mister Vimes," said Rincewind's voice. Vimes glanced up and saw the distorted face of Rincewind above him. 

"What?" he wheezed.

"That was... amazing. Carrot and some of the others were watching here too. And we have good news. We think we may have a way to get you out. There's someone here who wants to speak to you."

Vimes looked slightly confused. No one apart from Rincewind and once Ridcully had spoken to him via the crystal link. He looked upwards after a quick glance left and right, hardly daring to hope...

It wasn't Sybil's face that appeared as he had hoped but Andrew's. Vimes's slight smile drained as he felt the prickling of flowing blood on his back and the anger rising in his stomach. "Andrew?"

"Hi Sam. I won't talk for long. They've found a way to get you home. But it turns out they need my blood and my memories to help get you back. I want to say I'm sorry Sam. And Sybil wants to speak to you too."

The face in orb changed and Vimes smiled for the first time in three weeks. "Sybil!"


	9. Allowing Time For More Storm Clouds to G...

"Look, it's like this Mister Vimes. We can get you back to the Disc, but it's almost certain you won't appear in Ankh-Morpork-" 

"Why?" Vimes asked, lying on the rough earth of the floor of his cave with his arms behind his head in order to stare more easily up into the crystal ball where Carrot's face shimmered.

"Er..." Carrot looked left as if he was listening to someone talking off stage. "Because of quantum Mister Stibbons says."

Quantum, thought Vimes, if there was ever a word I could learn to hate... "Alright. Just tell me what I have to do."

"Light a fire first off," Carrot said.

"In here?"

"Safest place," Carrot shrugged, "This is going to take some time."

"Great," Vimes muttered, digging into his pockets to find his last few matches. He dragged some firewood over to the middle of the room and set the kindling alight. Fairly rapidly the cave was full of curling white smoke that stung the eyes and dull orange flames flickered. 

Vimes coughed. "Done."

"Okay Mister Vimes, I'm going to hand over to Andrew now. He's going to direct you."

Carrot's face was replaced by that of Vimes's brother. Vimes favoured Andrew with a grimace. 

"Good to see you too, Sam."

"Just tell me how to get the hell out of here."

"Okay. Cut yourself."

"Cut myself!?" Vimes exploded.

"Trust me, Sam, you're getting the best of the deal," Andrew replied sharply. He held up his arm where one of Igor's tubes was taped to his forearm and even with the distortion Vimes could see the blood moving in the tube.

"Alright, alright." Vimes drew his dagger, closed his hand around the blade and then pulled the handle very sharply. He didn't cry out in pain as the cold metal cut his palm but he couldn't stop his face from screwing up in pain. Blood started to well from between his closed fingers. 

"Drop the blood into the fire."

Vimes held his hand over the flickering flames and opened his fingers slowly. The blood dripped freely from the wound into the flames even as the coating of blood on the rest of his hands dried stickily on his fingers. 

"Done it," he said.

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

Vimes yelped at the shock of hearing his brother's voice so loud in his own head. He clapped his good hand over one ear and sunk the other into his shoulder, but it didn't make any difference. 

CAN YOU HEAR ME?

"Yes! Yes, I hear you!"

GOOD. LISTEN TO MY VOICE. WHAT'S YOUR STRONGEST MEMORY FROM WHEN WE WERE KIDS?

"What?" Vimes said, slightly floored by the strange turn of events.

Andrew sighed. I tell you what, Sam, he said, whispering now, I'll show you mine.

There was a blinding flash and when Vimes's vision cleared he knew immediately where he was. Baron Street, just off Cockbill Street where he had grown up and next to the Cattle Markets. Everything seemed much more bright than he remembered, it was late evening and a slight mist was rising.

There was the sound of running feet and quite suddenly a familiar figure burst out of the mists. "Sam! Sam! Littlun!" 

Vimes couldn't quite help himself from murmuring the name of the short, skinny lady who had just appeared; her short brown hair already streaked with grey, although she was still under thirty. "Mam?" he whispered.

Another figure joined her, taller and stockier but still painfully thin. "He definitely.. left school..." gasped the boy.

"You stupid idiot Andy!" Mrs. Vimes snapped, slapping Andrew across the head , "Why couldn't you just walk out with him for once in your godsdamn life!?"

"I'm sorry Mam," Andrew said, panic in his voice now, and tears running down his face, "I didn't think... I mean, who'd want to hurt our Sam?"

Mrs. Vimes ignored her older son. "Sam! Sam! Where are you?"

Andrew joined in calling Vimes's name. Vimes took a step backwards into the gutters, not wanting to be seen by his family as they walked steadily towards him. He tripped over something in the gutter.

It was a little boy, lying face down in the muck flowing through the channel. He was bleeding in several places and his right arm, flung out in front of him, looked slightly bent as if the bone inside was broken... Compulsively he gripped his own arm. Although there was no visible deformity in Vimes's own arm, when he clutched hard enough to feel the bone there was still a slight bump where a break had not /quite/ set properly some years previously.

"Oh gods," Vimes murmured. 

The little boy in the gutter was him.

Trawling his own memories he couldn't really recall much of the day he had been taken from school by the SLC. Concussion had taken care of most of his recollections but he did remember being thumped hard across his face. Vimes reached out but found that he couldn't actually grip the boy to move him, although he was solid enough for Vimes's hand to brush against any attempt to grab him meant that Vimes's fingers slipped /through/ him as if he had suddenly become a insubstantial as the wind.

"Mam!"

Vimes turned to see Andrew staring wide eyed down at his younger form in the gutter, looking straight through him. "Mam! I've found him!"

Mrs. Vimes hurried over and screamed when she saw the body in the gutter in anguish. "They've killed him. Oh gods, they've killed the littlun!!"

"Mam, Mam, calm down; he's still breathing, Mam!" Andrew said, kneeling besides his brother, tears running down his face. He turned Sam over and Vimes gasped. His younger self's face was a bruise, red and swollen, blood crusted around his face and- 

-he blinked and he was back in the cave again.

"Oh gods. Andrew. I'd forgotten."

I KNOW. WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER?

Vimes thought about it. "I remember the fire, best of all."

Then that's what we'll remember. Together.

*

Sam Vimes sat watching the spiders that lived in the ceiling of his room descend on the silvery threads towards the floor. Mam was 'out,' which meant working. Andrew was 'out' which meant working. And Sam was 'in' which meant doing very little. He'd already run his errands for the day; he'd finished early and now he was sitting on his bed watching the spiders.

At twelve Sam Vimes had grown slightly over the last year becoming quite gangling, and as his mother was oft to remark, more like his father in the strength of his jaw-line. Depressingly, he had even expressed an interest in becoming a Watchman, an interest his family were keen to quash. 

The sound of the door slamming made young Vimes drop his gaze, slip off the bed and pad across the room to pull open his own door and look down the stairs to see who had come in. 

It was Andrew, his face flushed with excitement. "Sam! Are you in? Come downstairs!"

Sam shut the door hurriedly, not having any wish to speak to his brother as recently they had been arguing. Andrew called his name again, and then appeared to decide that his brother must be out. He heard him come up the stairs and Vimes hid under his bed thinking that Andy would be coming upstairs to their shared bedroom. The door opened and Vimes could see Andy's feet in the door frame. Vimes held his breath, confident that Andy would be able to hear his heart beating, and would drag him out from under the bed and start another fight...

The door shut and Andy went downstairs again. Vimes let out all the air he had been holding and gratefully refilled his lungs. He scrambled out from under the bed and returned to watching the spiders.

Downstairs Andrew crawled out through the window and into the garden. Bill was waiting for him. "Ready?"

"Ready. Noone's in. Let's do this."

"Okay Andrew. You're the boss."

He tossed a bottle of spirits to the older Vimes brother, who threw it through the window. Bill lit a match and slung it after the bottle. There was a 'whumph' of igniting spirit and presently the sound of crackling flames. "Let's get out of here."

The forty-something year old Vimes trapped in the Dungeon Dimensions blinked, trying to clear the vision, as the sensation of movement made him want to see what was going on in the real world.

STAY WITH THE VISION SAM! Andy warned.

Dancing flames and curling smoke.... the walls of the cave spinning sickly.... heat, frizzling the hair on his arms. His eyebrows too... screaming.... the pain from the wound in his hand...

Vimes opened his eyes to see blue sky and white snow, streaking towards him at ever increasing speeds. He screamed as sudden realisation struck him, and three seconds later crashed into the snow drift.

*

Andrew Vimes opened his eyes. "He's gone," he said.

Ridcully peered into the crystal ball, frowned, and flicked it with his finger. "So it would appear," he said. 

"Where is he?" asked Captain Carrot.

Ponder Stibbons was punching numbers into Hex at an alarming speed. "I should be able to make a few calculations and pinpoint his exact location, assuming the Hubert's Constant still applies in interdimensional transit..."

"What?"

But no reply was forthcoming over the clacking of keys.

  
  


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  
  


Bit of a shortie, this one. More will be forthcoming shortly. Thanks for some really nice reviews people!


	10. A Little Fall of Rain

When Vimes opened his eyes he saw white, snow capped mountains with such clarity he felt he could reach out and touch them. He blinked. Mountains... the last place he could clearly remember had definitely not been in close proximity to mountains. Certainly not snow-capped ones.

He sat up and some snow fell off him. He was naked. And cold, he realised. Very, very cold. He staggered to his feet and realised that his clothes had landed next to him. His shirt was frozen solid as cardboard, and digging in the pocket he found his silver cigar case stuck to the material. He prised it away from the stiff material.

He was on a small hill. In the valley he could see smoke rising. That meant... people. He thought for a minute; the cold was making him slow. The appearance of a naked man in anyone's village was bound to cause some upset and mountain tribespeople had some novel ideas about greeting strangers... Vimes was quite keen, having managed to survive so far in one piece, on keeping all of his arms and legs attached. It could be dangerous to head for the smoke.

On the other hand it was some degrees below freezing and he had no clothes on. The most obvious killer was going to be the cold if he stood around here.

Trying to suppress the feeling of deja-vu he picked his way carefully down the hill, the snow clinging to his bare feet. He stumbled a few times and fell in the snow. By the time he reached the valley he was so cold he could barely feel most of his body.

There was a track now which he could follow, compacted snow with visible tracks. He let his feet lead him, his mind elsewhere. It took a loud scream to jerk him into reality.

The woman screaming on the track was dressed in furs. If Vimes had sat down and consciously thought about it he would have expected her to be blonde and pale faced. She was actually black, with long braided hair and her mouth a splash of pink against the dark skin and white snow as she opened her mouth to scream again.

Vimes moved to extend a hand. "D-on't," he said, but the simple movement caused him to overbalance and he sprawled on the snow, as the darkness reclaimed his brain.

*

"Jamala! Jamala!"

The Chief looked up from where he was digging. "Yes Kiara?" Kiara was the village wise-woman. Some people claimed she was a witch; Jamala kept his own views to himself- he was prepared to put up with a potential devil worshipper if it meant he kept Kiara's knowledge of healing plants.

"There's a man on the path from the mountains!"

"What?!"

It took some time to explain. Jamala still didn't understand what the Healer was gibbering about until he followed her and saw the man for himself. Then he ordered him to be moved to the healer's tent to be attended to by Kiara. There was much speculation in the village on the nature of the stranger. They'd heard stories (who hadn't?) of angels that fell from the sky and sought the aid of mortals to heal their wounds before ascending again. By helping the stranger Jamala was assuring his place at the table of his Great Father. As evening fell he went to the healer's tent to check on the man. He was lying still as stone on the healer's bedroll; a pile of furs and blankets.

"He's still asleep," said Kiara.

"You've treated his wounds?"

"Mostly... they're very strange..."

"What do you mean-?" he began, but he was cut off.

Vimes opened his eyes and leapt to his feet as suddenly as if he had received an electric shock., the furs draped around him like a cape. In the corner of the tent there was a mirror; something of a status symbol for the tribe as it was difficult to get glass up the mountain. 

Vimes stared at the reflection. He had to assume it was his, although it didn't seem anything like he remembered. His hair had grown into a matted thatch of silver which seemed to merge seamlessly into a beard longer than any he had ever kept before (even in the forgotten three week period that had occurred in his mid twenties when he had decided for once to join the fashion and had grown a goatee. It hadn't suited him).

There was dry blood crusted all over his face, on his neck and as his eyes moved steadily downward he took in the scabs on his chest. He was absolutely filthy; the only pink on his face around his eyes were tears of pain or sleep had washed tracks in the muck. There were too many cuts and bruises to count and his eyes peered out from the grubby face, framed by the filthy hair, staring and quite mad. 

He patted where, if he had been wearing any clothes, his pockets would have been. His cigar case was gone. He turned around to the man and woman staring at him. "Have you.. Have you got my cigar case?" His throat felt as though it was full of sand.

"See-gah?" said the woman, staring at him curiously.

Vimes nodded, miming opening the case. He was rewarded with more confused stares. He tried to smile disarmingly, he didn't like the way the man was fingering the hilt of his hunting knife suspiciously. The tribeswoman looked slightly scared and he stopped smiling quickly.

"Kiara," said the woman, placing a hand on her chest. Vimes obviously continued to look confused so she repeated herself. "Jamala," she added, touching the man's chest.

Vimes cottoned on. "Sam," he said, touching his own chest. "Sam Vimes."

"Oo-andth est theian amenour?" said the man.

"Er...?" Sam replied. 

There was a complicated exchange between Jamala and Kiara during which Vimes pulled the furs more firmly about himself and, spying his cigar case, moved to reclaim it. His stomach was rumbling somewhat alarmingly and as their argument petered out Jamala and Kiara appeared to notice. 

"Seth ay nooman," Kiara announced and Jamala rolled his eyes and hurried out. Vimes peered after him but Kiara tapped him on the shoulder and pulled him over to the only table in the tent. There was some paper on the desk and charcoal. Kiara drew something. 

"Theian?"

Vimes frowned at the paper, willing the wriggling lines and dots to make some kind of sense. He angled his head. Actually... it looked almost like a map... the zigzag a mountain range, the line a river... the dot Kiara's village.

"Here," he said, drawing his own dot. 

Kiara's eyes widened. "Arnak-Morpak?"

Vimes nodded gratefully. "Ankh-Morpork, yes."

Jamala had returned bearing food. Kiara turned to him and rattled off a long and complicated speech punctuated with 'Arnak-Morpaks.' Vimes bit into one of the vaguely unidentifiable meat joints Jamala had turned up with. It was greasy and half burnt but at least it was better than scaly...

... He sat down heavily as the memories hit him with all the subtly of a concrete breeze-block. "Oh gods."

*

Vimes was shaken awake the next morning from unpleasant nightmares. There was a balding man in orange robes standing over him, a strangely tanned colour; his skin had the colour and texture of a walnut. "Alright Mister Vimes?" he said in the broadest Ankhian accent Vimes had ever heard.

"Oh gods... I was wondering when one of you lot would be turning up...where the hell am I?"

"One of us lot?" said the Ankhian walnut, confused.

"History monks..." Vimes mumbled, having difficulty focussing in his exhaustion... "What now?"

The man dropped his voice. "You know of us?"

"Lu-Tze," Vimes said as if that was explanation. 

"I'm here simply because the various villagers know that I speak Moporkian and yesterday a messenger was sent to my hovel that a man from Ankh-Morpork had turned up. I was... curious..."

"Where am I? What's happening here so that the history monks need an operative in the mountains?"

The walnut appeared to consider his situation. "I'm not sure exactly how much I'm supposed to tell you Mister Vimes... I tell you what..." He bought his hand down sharply on Vimes's head and the policeman fell unconscious. "I'll contact my superiors."

Vimes awoke again with a throbbing headache on a soft bed. He sat up violently, ignoring all his aches. "What the hell was that for?"

He swore. Lu-Tze was sitting opposite him smoking one of his tiny cigarettes. "Alright Mister Vimes? You're a long way from home. How'd you get here?"

"It's a long story. Where am I?"

"HQ, Mister Vimes. Where the history monks train. How did you end up here?"

"I was in the Dungeon Dimensions. The wizards summoned me out. They said I might end up anywhere on the Disc. I didn't take that to mean thirty feet in the air above a snowdrift. Have you got my cigar case?"

Lu-Tze threw it over to Vimes who gripped it tightly. "You certainly lead an interesting life Mister Vimes. Lucky for you that you landed near friends."

Vimes nodded; he'd assumed that he was going to land in the Klatchian jungles, or the XXXX desert. The mountains had been about fifth on his list of nasty places to land. "You can help me get home?"

"I suppose so," Lu-Tze said with a grin.

"Oh good. I'm so glad."

"Good to see you haven't lost your sarcastic edge."

  
  


+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nearly there now folks! Sorry it's another short one... Lunar.


	11. Buying An Umbrella

Lady Sybil was cleaning out the dragons. There was a constancy to keeping dragons; there would always be dung to remove, egg fragments to clean up and illnesses to treat. The dragons would always be here requiring her attention and the mindless mechanism of shovelling, patting down and shovelling again prevented her thoughts from wandering too far away...

... Like the mountains. She laid the shovel against the wall and surrendered herself to the unavoidable speculation about the whereabouts of her husband. The wizards had tracked him as far as a mountain valley; he had crashed into a snow drift and wandered down into the village... and then he had disappeared. The wizards had simply lost him. 

Sybil quietly wondered whether or not he would ever be found. It was most unlike her husband not to attempt to contact her in some way. Over the past few days she had caught herself watching the Clacks for news of Vimes, listening for the whir of pigeon wings or the flip-flop of Carrot's sandals as he ran down the drive to tell her 'He's back!'....which was absurd. 

Sam started to cry. Sybil had found herself curiously morose when looking after her son currently. Even at his young age she found he reminded her so strongly of her husband it took all of her strength not to cry every time he opened his eyes (which were slowly but steadily turning brown) and opened his mouth to bawl (his chin so much like that of her husband it was uncanny).

Sybil washed her hands quickly and trailed into the house, moved upstairs to the bedroom and picked up her son. He stopped crying immediately with the smug air of one who knows every whim will be catered for and just wanted to remind all in the house in case they had forgotten. Not for the first time Sybil felt a sense of frustration building, tinged with the exhaustion borne of nights sleepless enough with the baby, not to mention worry for her lost husband. She wished, fervently, for Sam to return miraculously; for him to appear suddenly in the bedroom doorway smiling his faint and slightly worried smile that he always wore when returning from work late- the smile the apologised for his tardiness and expressed his mild anxiety about what duties he had missed; what wild scam his dragon-mad spouse had roped him into...?

But he didn't appear, might never appear, so she put Sam back to bed and sat for a moment, before moving over to her desk and starting to write.

*

Sam Vimes, beardless once more and with such a drastic haircut inflicted on him by the monks that he looked, from a distance, almost as bald as they did, walked somewhat stiffly towards Ankh-Morpork. He wasn't /quite/ sure how he had got here so quickly but Lu-Tze wasn't in the mood for explanations and for once Vimes didn't need to hear them. He wanted to go home, so badly now that he could almost taste the stale cake and concrete bacon that Sybil cooked, smell that alchemical stench of dragon... see the talcum powder hand prints on his clothes; the inevitable result of changing nappies.

But Ankh-Morpork was still a dark mass on the horizon and his accompanying escort of monks had fallen away; leaving him alone to follow the winding track home, his leg paining him and his back aching. He ignored the niggling twinges, the desire to get home alight like a fierce fire inside, powering himself forward.

However, he could not walk all night and all day with no rest. Eventually he would be forced to stop and sleep for a while... but for now that was far in the future and he concentrated on lengthening his stride. He didn't like sleeping at the moment; his dreams were full of monsters of his past and present - humans and Things alike. His nightmares always ended in a deathly fall onto blank expanses of snow and he would jerk awake to dwell on the images. He was practically hallucinating from fatigue, managing no more than four or five hours of sleep a night... but he knew that if he could make it home that he could find solace with the one person who he trusted to turn him away from the nightly terrors; who had done it before whether he had woken up sweating about a dragon's tonsils, a werewolf's eyes or a battlefield....

He broke into a run.

*

Lady Sybil hurried through the morning mists towards Unseen University, still not happy about leaving her son in the care of the butler. It was still far too early in the morning for the streets to be busy; the morning traders were yet to arrive and the late night shifts from bakeries and Watch Houses had gone home. 

She glanced up as mismatched footsteps echoed down the streets. She stared. There was a skinny figure limping towards her, dragging one foot slightly, his clothes fluttering in the smallest of breezes they were so tattered. His head glistened; his hair was closely cropped. Perhaps it was a beggar? And yet there was something oddly familiar about that walk and the fighting stance as if held within the lean figure was a compressed power; waiting to explode.

She stood stock still. /Please please please please please.../ The strength of her plea erupted from her mind onto her lips. "Please please please," she murmured, "Please let it be him, let it be him."

And the stranger was upon her, his head strangely small without the shock of hair she was used to, eyes sunk deep into his skull with weariness and a chin blue with stubble, speckled grey. "Sam?"

He was almost past her, absorbed in his own thoughts yet he turned and his sunken eyes widened in shock. "Sybil?" His voice was hoarse.

"You're back then?" It came out lightly, joking.

"Why are you here?"

"I was going to the University..."

There was a brief pause during which Sybil felt the smile creep across her face. Sam's somewhat unemotional, interrogative response to meeting her might have been hurtful if Lady Sybil hadn't long ago gotten use to Sam's strange aversion to public shows of emotion. She was therefore shocked when her husband, face still frowning (which for Sam Vimes was the equivalent of a blank expression) enveloped her unashamedly in a bone crushing hug, burying his face in her shoulder. He smelt of sweat and earth. His shirt was torn, no buttons left so it hung open and there was a slash across his back so she found her fingers were inside his shirt tracing the scars of new wounds in great gashes across his back. 

"Oh gods," he hissed into her shoulder as her hand moved over his skin, tracing the marks, the bruises, the scratches.

"I thought we'd lost you," she said in reply, surprised that her voice sounded clear as she said it, almost offhand.

Vimes laughed; it was almost a giggle, slightly hysterical. "...Like a boomerang..keep coming back."

"Where've you been?"

"Coming home. You spoke to Andrew." His tone was not accusatory.

"Yes."

"Did he tell you everything?" he asked, almost fearful.

"Not everything, no. Most things."

She felt him sag against her, as if his legs could no longer support his weight; although there was hardly any weight to him. His skinhead haircut completed his overall appearance of a skeleton with skin.

"I hoped... I never wanted you to find out. About what I was. Once."

"Why Sam?" she asked, "You thought I'd be ashamed of you? I'm not. And... there are things that you don't know about me. About my past," she paused, swallowed and then continued, "Horrible things. Perhaps not as terrible as what you left behind. But that's the thing about the past. It's /past/."

Vimes tightened his grip on his wife, wondering what on the Disc a young noblewoman could have experienced that could have been as horrific as his dealings with Ankh-Morpork's gangland. 

He let go. "Look, I probably smell quite badly and I slept last night in a ditch. I'm filthy. I better clean myself up." He cleared his throat and Sybil suppressed a laugh. She hugged him again.

"Don't be daft, Sam Vimes. I thought we'd never see you again. I could hug you now even if you were covered in dragon dung."

*

Some time later Vimes eventually emerged from his bathroom, skin red from excessive scrubbing, a towel wrapped around his middle for modesty. Sybil had set out from the looks of things an entire first aid kit on the bed. "There's about thirty people wanting to see you."

"Can't they wait until tomorrow?" he said, already becoming exasperated, "I'd appreciate one night with my family before I have to brave public exposure..."

He lay face down on the bed with a sigh and felt his wife's practised fingers exploring his wounds, the cool stickiness of her various healing salves and he shifted position for her to wrap bandages neatly around him. It was overkill anyway, most of his wounds were already healed or healing but Sybil's remedies did have an unprecedented success rate in terms of reducing scar tissue. Vimes had too many scar to care much about a few more but he preferred to keep his skin whole where possible. There was also the fact that he had missed human contact, ashamed as he was to admit it; he had missed falling asleep with the sound of another person's relaxed breathing in his ears, missed burnt food and the smell of dragons, missed talking and listening and laughing and joking and... other human activities... hell, he'd even missed been woken up at three o'clock in the morning by a screaming baby.

"Thank you," he said when Sybil had finished, meeting her eyes with such a burning appreciation that she found herself blushing slightly.

"It's fine."

Rather apprehensively Vimes kissed her, not quite sure what to expect.

She gave him a kiss too.

He gave her another one, although technically it might be classed as an extension of the second kiss-- 

There was a knock at the door and Vimes sighed. "You don't have to answer it," Sybil said.

"I know... I know..." said Vimes, already moving to get dressed.

Sybil smiled and moved to open the door. Sam started to snuffle. Vimes picked him up gently, stoking his downy brown hair. He rewarded Vimes with a smile; Vimes had never seen Sam do that before, he wondered if Sybil had. Descending the staircase Vimes found most of what he mentally labelled the senior squad of the Watch assembled in his living room.

"Welcome back, Mister Vimes!" said Carrot cheerfully.

"Nice to see you sir," said Angua, uncharacteristically light-hearted.

"Good to have you back, sir," Cheery added.

"Yer." That was Detritus. Fred Colon and Nobby obviously didn't feel the need to vocalise, but they saluted with a surprising efficiency, and all wore broad smiles. Vimes felt slightly embarrassed suddenly; holding a baby and with the most ridiculous haircut he had ever worn in his life.

"Hello..."

It was suddenly too noisy to listen as every Watchman in the room tried to apprise their Commander of what major events he had missed out on. 

"Hey! HEY! STOP!"

They stopped. 

"Look. I'm very happy to see all of you. All of you. But... I would like to spend tonight with my family...I'm sure any news about work can wait until tomorrow. Is there anything that you still have to say?"

There was a brief shocked silence for about ten seconds. Angua grinned and began ushering Carrot to the exit. With a final chorus of 'good to see you!' they left the house. Vimes couldn't quite help himself from heaving a sigh of relief. Sam smiled at him again.

"Oh, yes... um... has Sam... smiled before?" he said, reminded suddenly of his question.

"Smiled?" Sybil asked, looking confused.

"Yes.. Um.. Like that," said Vimes, nodding towards his son's grin.

"No!" breathed Sybil, "I was hoping he would soon. He's six weeks old, after all. It must be having you back."

Vimes smiled back at his son. "I think I can say this with true feeling," he said, "It's good to be home."

  
  


++++++++++++++++++++++++

  
  


Hhhmmm... apologies if this chapter has vague 'Harry Potter' overtures; I stayed up all night after buying the book at midnight to read it (I know I'm sad... I did the same for Night Watch...) And then re-read it more slowly over the past few days and I think JK Rowling's style has kind of affected my writings..... mwahaha! Anyone for a HP/DW crossover!?! (I'm not!!) Now /that/ would be funny! Ahem.

- Lunar


End file.
